


In The Drift

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (2013), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Agency issues, Casual use of ableist language, Coercion, Gen, Jaeger Pilots, Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Prejudice, Torture, Violence, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve 'Cap' Rogers and James 'Bucky' Barnes are the best jaeger pilots the world has ever seen: their level of synchronisation is unmatched, and they've killed more kaiju than any other pair of pilots could ever dream of. But when Bucky dies in a tragic accident, Steve decides to quit his job, and leave his past behind him - that is, until ex-Russian pilot Natasha Romanoff turns up at his door, wanting him to be her new co-pilot. Can Steve enter the drift again, after losing Bucky? And what secrets are the Russians hiding from SHIELD? </p><p>Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve/Bucky, Pacific Rim AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Does what it says on the tin - CA:TWS Steve/Bucky Pacific Rim AU. I got this idea a few weeks ago, and I wanted to turn it into a full-length fic. I know where it's going, and I have one more chapter written, but it's exam time so updates might be a little slow (sorry if this has been done before, I hope I can add my own take to it). 
> 
> Warning: this fic contains a lot of anti-Russian prejudice. This doesn't reflect my attitudes: it's in keeping with some stuff from the comics (although this fic is set in the mcu), but no offence is intended. Thanks!!

Sirens in the middle of the night, to anyone else, would mean danger: it would mean panic, and fear, and a scramble to get to safety. 

But to Steve Rogers, there’s nothing better to wake up to. 

It’s not that he enjoys fighting – he doesn’t like killing, he’s not a perfect Ranger – it’s just that when those sirens go off, it’s his duty calling him; his country needs him, and he’s always as quick and as enthusiastic as possible to answer the call. He springs out of the top bunk, and rushes to get ready. 

Bucky, however, kind of wants to stay in bed. 

“Bucky – Bucky, get up,” Steve hisses to his best friend, shaking his shoulder. Bucky groans, and burrows deeper into his pillow. When Steve doesn’t stop bothering him, he swats at his arm.  
“Nah – Steve, I don’t wanna go for a run-” he mumbles groggily.  
“Get your ass outta bed, Buck – the siren-” Steve persists. 

Bucky heaves a great sigh, and lifts his head from the pillow, blinking owlishly out at nothing in particular; Steve can almost see the cogs working in his brain, as he listens to the blaring, whining noise that means they need to go do what they’re best at: piloting their jaeger. He blinks a few more times, before a smile slowly spreads across his face. 

“Oh – right . . . Alright, alright – I’m coming,” He mumbles, sitting up and scrambling for his pants; a white vest, which he slips on over his dog tags.  
Steve waits impatiently as he laces up his boots: he was up and ready for action within seconds of hearing the call. But, then again, he’s a much lighter sleeper than Bucky – always has been. Bucky sleeps as heavily as he likes, knowing Steve will always get him up if there’s an emergency. 

Steve was always over-eager: if there’s one thing he loves in life, it’s piloting jaegers. They’d grown up together in Brooklyn, seeing the technology evolve; watching the first American jaeger, Howling Commando, in action. Seeing the first jaeger pilots, Peggy Carter and Angie Martinelli, save New York once had been the catalyst for skinny, sickly little Steve Rogers to spend his every waking moment working out, to bulk up and get fit. He idolised Carter and Martinelli for their heroism, and wanted with every fibre of his being to be just like them. At the age of eighteen, he was ready, in his mind, to serve his country in every way that counted. 

Bucky hadn’t ever been quite as keen as Steve – but, when Steve signed up as a recruit for SHIELD’s new initiative to find jaeger pilots, he couldn’t let him go alone. Not where he couldn’t follow – he needed to look out for the little punk (even if he wasn’t so little, anymore). 

So, he’d signed up, too – and now, seven years later, they’re two of the most skilled jaeger pilots to ever enter the drift together. Really, no one has the same success rate as Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes: when it comes to killing kaiju, their skills are second-to-none. SHIELD scientists have studied them extensively, trying to find out just how they manage to be so skilful, and so in tune, that they’re able to dismiss many of the kaiju they’re pitted against in a matter of minutes. SHIELD’s other pilots have never even come close to their level of drift compatibility. 

But, then again, while the other pilots are enthusiastic, none of them are quite as enthusiastic as Steve. He’s just so patriotic, and so eager to fight for the freedom of his country, and the world on his country’s behalf – Bucky had called him Captain America once, as a joke, and it had kind of stuck. So, even though the two of them are pilots first and SHIELD Rangers second, people often call him Captain Rogers. Unfortunately for him, Bucky’s teasing backfired on him, when people started calling him Sergeant Barnes. 

But when they pilot a jaeger, the jokes are set aside. Often times, there’s complete awed silence on the observation deck, when Steve and Bucky fight a kaiju: no one’s making fun of them, then. Because they kick ass. 

“You think they’ve fixed the portside panelling?” Bucky asks, through a yawn, as he grabs his blue jacket. Steve shrugs on his brown bomber jacket, and frowns in disapproval.  
“You sure you’re awake enough for this mission, Buck?” He asks, not unkindly. The time he doesn’t spend focussing on the mission, he’s watching Bucky; making sure he’s okay, or looking to him for guidance. It’s not surprising that it hasn’t worked out between him and all the girls Bucky has tried to set him up with, before now. 

“Hey, it’s 3 a.m. – some of us need more sleep than others, Cap,” Bucky points out, smirking at Steve. The guy is obsessed – and he’s pretty cute with it. Bucky doesn’t have any doubts, but it’s nice to know one of them is worrying about the mission enough for the both of them.  
“Shut up, jerk,” Steve punches him lightly on the arm, as they make their way out of their room, Steve locking their door behind them. 

-

“Can’t the kaiju ever attack when I’m wide awake?” Bucky grumbles, as one of the technicians fastens him into his suit, securing the breastplate as he chats idly to Steve.  
“Guess they’d have to attack sometime between ten and ten thirty, then,” Steve jokes, flexing his fingers and testing the give of the suit, as the technicians babble to each other, rushing to prepare the jaeger for attack before deserting the cockpit. _Ready for take-off in 2_. 

“I’m not that lazy, Cap,” Bucky protests, stretching out when he’s fully fastened into the machine. They each put their helmets on, pulling down the visors and getting comfortable. 

This is where they’re both most happy: aboard Justice Inferno, side by side, about to smash some monster to smithereens. They’ve been stationed in Stockholm for a few weeks: there’s been strange kaiju activity around the Baltic sea for a few months, now – it looks like they’re just popping up out of nowhere, and the attacks are getting more frequent. Fury made the executive decision to post the two of them away from America for a while, offering their superior support to all the nations that ally themselves with SHIELD. SHIELD are widely regarded as the forerunners in defence against kaiju attack – they go wherever they’re needed, recruiting the best pilots from every country, and pretty much every nation is thankful for their help.  
That is, every country but Russia. It’s not that SHIELD hasn’t extended an olive branch to them – they just refuse help, every time. It’s strange – but it isn’t any of Steve or Bucky’s concerns, as they prepare to be airlifted to the area in the Gulf of Finland that the kaiju has emerged from, ready to attack the first major land mass it reaches. Ironically, that would probably be Russia, judging from the readout they’re getting from SHIELD’s Stockholm base of operations. 

“Set to drift in ten seconds, fellas,” Maria Hill’s voice comes through on the coms.  
“Ready and waiting,” Steve tells her.  
“Yes ma’am,” Bucky adds. Steve rolls his eyes.  
“Initiate drift,” 

The lights dim in the cockpit, as Steve and Bucky move in synchronisation: taking a step together just like they have hundreds of times before, they both stomp down at the same time. The familiar lights and sounds that accompany the drift amp up; the images fade into existence before their eyes. 

_Bucky’s dreams before he was woken up this morning – he and Steve are at the movies, throwing popcorn at each other – he and Steve are laughing at some corny joke he made – he and Steve are walking home, they’re holding hands–_

“Focus, Captain,” Maria’s concerned voice comes over the coms, and Steve realises he’s blushing; not breathing properly. “You threw us for a loop there. You feeling okay?”  
“Sure – sorry,” Steve replies, glancing at Bucky, and cursing himself for losing synchronisation even for a second. But Bucky isn’t looking at him – and this isn’t the time to be bringing up the fact that _in his dreams, Bucky holds hands with Steve on the way home from a movie – were they on a – was that a–?_

“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles; the drift fills with another set of memories – _Bucky smacks Steve upside the head._

“Ow,” Steve says, frowning.  
“Quit complaining, Cap,” Bucky smirks. Steve sighs, and shakes his head, though he can’t hide his smile. 

_Bucky grabs him round the shoulders, smirking and leading him away, telling him about some double-date he’s arranged for them. The memory wouldn’t be so poignant, but they both know it takes place right after Bucky’s beat the crap out of some bully who tried to knock Steve out for standing up to him._

“You ever get tired of looking out for me, Buck?” Steve asks quietly, as the engines of SHIELD’s specially-designed carrier, used for carrying them to the sites where kaiju emerge, fire up above them.  
“Not really,” Bucky replies, trying to be nonchalant – but Steve can see the overwhelming truth in the statement.  
“Do you ever think you will?” He asks, over the noise of them being lifted into the air; he looks at Bucky, making eye contact. Bucky smiles – more genuine than his usual cheeky grins.  
“Hey,” He says, and his voice is sincere, for once, as he tries to put Steve at ease: “I’m with you til the end of the line,” 

_A series of images remembered from every time Bucky has told Steve that flicker into the drift for a fleeting second each – it’s unclear whether the images come from Steve, or Bucky._

Bucky winks at Steve. Steve smiles, and nods, feeling much better; much less pathetic, and weak. 

Usually, Steve’s a lot less vocal in the drift than Bucky: it’s not that his side of the connection is weaker, it’s just that he loves to see Bucky’s thoughts; loves to feel what he’s feeling, and experience things as Bucky experiences them. One of his favourite things about being in that state is learning that all those times Bucky’s pretended he’s not funny, he’s always internally been laughing – he always tries to mask how much he really does value and cherish Steve, cause if he let all those feelings out, and started talking about them . . . He just wouldn’t be Bucky. 

The two of them brace, as Justice Inferno is lifted into the air. They get to the site where the monster has emerged in a matter of minutes; the two of them are fully synchronised, and ready to fight it. Steve feels those familiar butterflies, as he glances over at Bucky, who’s already looking at him with an expression that lets Steve know he’s spoiling for a fight. Clearly, he’s gotten over his spoilt lie-in. 

“Could have done with some elevator music on the way over. I was starting to get bored,” Bucky jokes, as the spray from the waves pelts the window in front of them; it looks bitterly cold outside of the safety of the cockpit.  
“Yeah, well you won’t be in a minute,” Steve tells him.  
“We’re putting you down, boys. Good luck,” Maria’s voice tells them over the coms.  
“I like to make my own luck, Maria,” Steve tells her, smiling to himself; images of him and Maria drinking together fade into the drift. Well – Maria is having a drink, Steve’s sticking to water. Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve.  
“Got a bit of a thing for the deputy commander, there, Cap?” Bucky teases.  
“Shut up, jerk,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head. Then, more assertively, “Let’s go,” 

Justice Inferno shakes, as they make contact with the sea floor: they rise well above it. The nearest city, from here, is St. Petersburg: if they don’t take the kaiju out of the equation soon, by the time dawn breaks, there won’t be any city left for the people there to wake up to. 

Sure, Russia likes to go it alone – but they’re nowhere to be found, and SHIELD excels at this sort of thing. _Steve and Bucky_ excel at this kind of thing.  
It’s barely any time before they hear the roar of the beast: the sea floor beneath them shakes slightly, as the kaiju rears up, making itself known.  
“I thought these things only turned up in the Pacific!” Steve calls over the noise of it, as they take a defensive stance.  
“You know Russia – batshit crazy!” Bucky yells over the noise and, while Steve doesn’t completely agree, he does think to himself that the kaiju situation is getting stranger and stranger these days. Not only are they popping up in this area, nowhere near the Breach – but they’re changing, and getting . . . 

_. . . Larger_. Both he and Bucky pause, the drift going momentarily blank, as they crane their necks to look up at the giant they’re facing.  
“Get _down_!” Bucky yells – but Steve’s already on it, and they’re both moving, manoeuvring their craft down and to the left, to avoid the fist the enormous beast is throwing at them.  
“Canon!” Yells Steve, a note of panic in his voice because _damn, that thing is freaking huge – the biggest one he’s ever seen, let alone fought – and oh God, I hope they did fix the portside panelling, Bucky’s on my left-_

“Concentrate Cap!” Bucky cries over the screeching of the kaiju, and the roaring of the sea smashing against their jaeger.  
“Discharge the canon – 3 – 2- 1-!”

Bucky lets rip with the canon, yelling triumphantly as he does so: the creature is hit on its left shoulder, taking a few steps back and wailing in pain.  
“Good job!” Steve calls, as they regroup for another attack.  
“Give ‘em hell, Cap!” Bucky calls excitedly, as Steve rears back to deliver a sucker punch to the creature’s jaw. Doesn’t matter how big – no kaiju can withstand a hit from a jaeger canon at point-blank range. There’s no way he’s letting this one get the better of him. 

He smashes the right fist of Justice Inferno into the creature’s head, causing it to stumble confusedly to the left.  
“Now, canon again!” Steve calls.  
“You got it,” Bucky agrees, charging his canon. _They’ve got this in the bag_. 

That’s when disaster strikes. Turns out, some kaiju _can_ take the kind of hit they gave it, and still very much put up a good goddamn fight. 

The thing wildly lashes out with the arm whose shoulder isn’t bleeding black into the dark waters: it smashes into Bucky’s side of the cockpit, shredding machinery and taking out those weakened portside panels. Its clawed hand crashes into the cockpit in one fell swoop, easily reaching Bucky – and then it’s tearing at Bucky’s left side, wrenching him free of all the cables feeding into his suit, with a series of sparks and alarms and screams. It’s dragging him out with it, dragging him down – the whole cockpit shifts and lists to the left, and Bucky’s screaming; he’s clutching onto part of the Inferno for dear life, though there’s a bloody mess where his left arm used to be –

“Bucky!” Steve screams, half in desperation to reach his friend – half in complete and _utter agony_ at the phantom pain that’s blossomed on his whole left side, the drift making him hurt in sympathy with Bucky – he’s reaching for him; in the confusion, the canon Bucky had charged goes off, firing directly into the vulnerable neck of the beast they’re trying to kill, and blowing its head clean off. 

But Steve can’t do anything – _he can’t get out, he can’t help_ – Bucky’s face is pale and terrified, as his fingers slip off the sharp, mangled metal they’re clinging onto, and he’s screaming, and falling into the blackness, his horrified, apologetic face begging for help, as he cries,  
“ _Steve-!_ ”

But despite their screams, and Steve trying to manipulate the Inferno to try and help him hold on, Bucky slips away into the darkness.  
Steve’s left staring, open mouthed, at the place where his best friend in the whole universe used to be: he’s lost his Mom and Dad, he never really had many other friends . . . He doesn’t love anyone like he loves Bucky. _Now, I have nothing again._

Even though the jaeger is crumpling, falling to its knees in the middle of the ocean amongst kaiju guts and vicious waves, Steve can’t bring himself to move. Maybe it’s the shock, or the grief, or the neural overload from being the sole pilot of the Inferno, but he’s frozen solid. He doesn’t hear the crackling of the radio – the cheering, followed by the urgent panicked voices, when SHIELD realises that something is seriously, _seriously wrong – Ranger Rogers, can you hear me? Ranger, please respond – dammit, get a chopper out there right now! – pull him out – where’s Ranger Barnes? No vitals – lost synchronisation-_

_Rogers, do you copy?_

It’s all too much – he wonders why he can hear screaming, and eventually realises it’s his own voice; the wetness on his face is nothing to do with the rising waters, spraying his face and sloshing around his feet, as the jaeger sinks deeper – he can’t hear anything but the sound of Bucky screaming his name, echoing and echoing and echoing, repeating over and over again until it deafens him, consumes him – the drift is fading away, colours and vague images swirling and getting darker and more twisted – the drift’s still there, but it’s black, and it’s pain and _his left arm, oh God, Bucky, my arm, please, it hurts, no, don’t –_

Steve Rogers passes out as the waters reach his waist, his left arm feeling disembodied, his shoulder burning white hot and scathing, but neither of those feelings comparing at all to the complete and utter desolation he feels, as the black drift consumes him, and he thinks to himself, _Bucky is gone. Bucky is dead. You let Bucky die._

Steve Rogers lets himself pass out thinking, _I’ll never see Bucky again_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far!! I'm really glad that you're excited for this, and that I've been able to provide you with this AU. Cheers!!

“He really passed out?” Steve asks, smirking.  
“Hell yeah – never seen a kid deal with the drift _that_ bad before,” Sam Wilson tells him over the phone, chuckling to himself. Steve finds himself laughing, too - that kind of thing only happens when he gets these calls from Sam, nowadays. And even then, it's not always guaranteed.  
“Recruits used to be made of sturdier stuff, in my day,” Steve tells him.  
“Your day was five years ago – you’re starting to sound like an old man, Rogers,” Sam retorts. Steve huffs, but doesn’t deny it. He looks out from the window of his log cabin, into the snow-capped mountains, and mulls over Sam’s words for a few moments. 

“. . . Has it really been that long?” He asks finally, blinking his way out of his reverie.  
“Sure has – but, you know . . . It’s never too late to come back,” Sam reminds him, sounding a little more tentative than before.  
“C’mon, Sam – we’ve been over this,” Steve sighs, rubbing at his eyes wearily.  
“I’m just saying, man – we could really do with your help, here. The kaiju – they’re popping up all over the damn place. Not just the Breach – there’s been more and more of them turning up in the place where you, uh-” He pauses for a moment, before settling on the phrasing: “-where your last mission was,” 

Steve laughs hollowly.  
“We both know I had missions after that,”  
“Yeah, and we both know how they went, too – never seen a guy pilot so well with someone he’s not drift compatible with. Seriously, you kicked some ass, but those co-pilots suffered serious ego damage,”  
“They were terrible, Sam. It’s gotta be a partnership – or the whole thing doesn’t work. I’m not even gonna go into how dangerous it was letting me pilot with my arm-”  
“Your arm’s fine, Steve,” Sam reminds him.  
“Easy for you to say,” Steve replies in a small, sad voice. As if on cue, his left arm starts to cramp; the shoulder joint sparks a small pain, shooting down the limb, as the memory of the icy cold water reaching up to his waist as he passed out assaults him. 

“. . . Look, I’m sorry, man,” Sam apologises. “I didn’t mean to-”  
“It’s fine. A lot of pilots carry their partners’ weaknesses. But I’m shaking it off – I’ve got a life, and a job, and I don’t need to get back in the drift again,” He recites. He wonders if he's fooling Sam, this time around. He never was very good at lies, or even half-truths. 

Sam sighs, and even from his side of the phone line, Steve can tell he’s won the argument – this time. It won’t be the last time his friend from his time training at the Shatterdome tries to convince him to re-enlist with SHIELD’s jaeger corps. 

“Alright. If you say so,” Sam says lightly, obviously agreeing to disagree. “Listen, man – I gotta go. It’s good to hear from you, though – and if I remember right, you owe me a drink,”  
“Not sure about that,” Steve laughs, swallowing the sorrow that threatens to consume him, as the phantom pain in his arm dampens down, fading away to obscurity again. “Next time you get shore leave, come pay me a visit,”  
“You got it, Cap – see ya around,” Sam says, before disconnecting the line. But the goodbye leaves a bitter taste in Steve’s mouth – his smile slips from his face, and he frowns, staring out across the mountains again, lost in nostalgia and painful memories. 

_Cap._

_No one’s called me that in a long time._

-

About a week later, a knock on his door interrupts Steve's daily workout routine – which is strange, because he lives pretty much in isolation. After his honourable discharge, he bought this cabin in the Montana mountains, and got a job as a woodworker at a local factory. 

His cabin, his beat-up truck, and his old memories are all he really has, in his life. No local friends – they’re all at the Shatterdome, or in Stockholm, or they’re–

The knocking persists. It’s late: who's calling at this hour? 

He dries off the worst of the sweat from his brow, setting his weights down on their stand and getting up to go to his door. He believes he has no expectations about who will be calling – but, when he opens the door, he finds the expectations he didn’t know he had completely confounded. 

An attractive woman with bright red hair stares back at him with intelligent, calculating blue-grey eyes. She’s dressed in what Steve recognises as SHIELD-issue clothing: SHIELD combat trousers, a tight SHIELD jacket, and a thick coat to protect her from the cold, over the top. All black. 

The cold doesn’t look like it bothers her – in his post-exercise state, the icy wind is a cool breath on his cheeks, soothing and refreshing him. Her pink lips form a pleasant smile, as she greets him.  
“Steve Rogers,” It’s clear she’s not asking – she knows what he’ll look like. Yup – if the clothes weren’t a dead giveaway, the way she knows who he is seals the deal for him. She's SHIELD, alright. 

Steve nods, but gives a bitter smile.  
“If Fury wants me to come back, he’s gonna have to try harder. He could start by coming up here himself,”  
“Fury’s a little busy to do that, don’t you think?” She asks, still smiling.  
“Then I guess you’ll have to be the one to deliver this message to him – my answer is still no,” Steve tells her. Her smile fades a little, and she purses her lips.  
“I’m actually not here on Fury’s orders,” She tells Steve. His eyebrows raise in surprise.  
“But you’re SHIELD,” He reasons.  
“Yes – I am . . . Now,” She confirms. “I’m here on my own behalf – Natasha Romanoff,” She tells him, extending her hand to him. 

He reaches out and takes it warily, shaking it as he tries to size her up – he and the other Rangers – _and Bucky, always Bucky_ – used to play poker all the time, and he’s gotten better over the years at reading poker-faces. But hers is . . . Well, it’s pretty much unreadable. He’s not sure what she wants – he’s not even sure she hasn’t stolen that clothing, coming to him in the guise of being a SHIELD agent, in order to try and kill him. But who would want to do that? . . . The only people he can think of are-

_. . . Romanoff. She’s Russian. She must be._

“Why don’t you come in,” He says, finally. She smiles again, and nods in thanks, before following him into the cabin. 

She looks around the cabin with a quick, practised eye: sparse furnishings, a workout bench and weights in the corner, a gas stove, immaculately clean kitchen – military minimalist. _Still not coping well._

“So, why are you here, Miss. Romanoff?” He asks, leaning against a counter and folding his arms. The name doesn’t exactly trip off his tongue.  
“It’s fine to say it, you know,” She tells him, looking back from her surroundings to his face. “Things have moved on a bit since you were a Ranger, but not that much. And you’re bound to still be suspicious of anyone coming to your door with a Russian name,” 

He looks down, smiling and shaking his head. He feels like an open book. 

“ _Are_ you Russian?” He asks plainly.  
“Yes – or, I used to be. I’ve actually switched my allegiance to SHIELD, recently,” She informs him.  
“And why’s that?” He asks, not quite sure he believes her. She holds his gaze for a tense moment, wondering if he’s ready to hear about her experiences. 

“I had a difference in opinion with the KGB,”  
“You sound like a politician,” He tells her, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. She huffs out a small laugh. “. . . I never heard of someone disagreeing with them and living to tell the tale. What did your opinions differ on?”  
“Research,” She tells him, “I’m sure you know the Russians don’t want to work with SHIELD – they’re convinced they can do a better job creating jaegers, and producing pilots,” Steve nods, and so she continues, “You’re aware of the kaiju appearing in the Gulf of Finland, near St. Petersburg?” 

He gulps, his mouth suddenly dry. _Of course – how could I forget?_

“Yes,” He tells her, his voice more broken then he’d like it to be. She pauses for just a second at that, and he curses himself for not keeping it together better – but the memories refuse to be dampened, insisting on being experienced; the feelings they bring up insisting on being felt. 

“I gathered some intelligence that suggests the KGB’s jaeger division has been engineering their own kaiju, from the bodies and DNA of dead ones,”  
“. . . What the – why?!” Steve asks, confused and outraged. This can’t be true.  
“For training purposes – and for testing out new machines,” She tells him.  
“That’s – that’s-”

_"You know Russia – batshit crazy!"_

“It sounds extreme, but it’s nothing compared to what they put their pilots through – some of the things I saw . . .” She frowns, shaking her head and looking at the floor. “. . . I couldn’t stay there. At least SHIELD doesn’t experiment on its pilots,”  
“What do you mean, experiment?” Steve asks cautiously. 

She purses her lips again, meeting his gaze with a grim expression. 

“Recently, I acquired new intelligence about the methods of the Russian jaeger corps . . . Some of the things I saw . . . Electroshock therapy, experimental drugs – brain surgery – they want to improve the drift technology by programming their pilots, too,” She tells him. His horrified face tells her that he’d probably have preferred not to hear that. “I couldn’t stay there – but I have a very specific skills set, and SHIELD’s always head-hunting jaeger pilots,” She points out.  
“. . . You here to head-hunt me, Ranger Romanoff?” He asks, presuming she’s achieved that rank in SHIELD’s jaeger corps by now. She smiles slightly, the side of her lips quirking upwards.  
“I am,” She confirms.  
“You said Fury didn’t send you – but so far, it sounds like he’s sent you to try and goad me into joining up again,” Steve tells her honestly. She nods.  
“Well, if that information encouraged you to come back, that’s good – but I meant it when I said Fury didn’t send me. I’m here on my own behalf – I need your help,”  
“What with?”  
She sighs, and goes to his couch, sitting herself down. He follows her, sitting down beside her, as she explains:  
“I’m a pilot – a Ranger, as you and SHIELD call them. My whole life, I’ve been trained to pilot jaegers – it’s pure destruction, but it’s all for good. At least . . . That’s what I thought. But – well, it’s not worth those men and women being tortured, just to kill kaiju more quickly and efficiently,” 

Steve nods. He’s glad they agree on that one – SHIELD does fine without any of that awful stuff going on. Sure, the attacks are getting worse – but it’s not worth risking the lives and wellbeing of pilots to keep up. It’s not just an arms race between SHIELD and the KGB, after all – it’s an arms race between humanity, and the kaiju. And if humanity subjects their fighters to torture, and pain, in order to try and win that race – well, they’ve already lost, in Steve’s opinion. He thinks he shares that thought with Natasha Romanoff. 

“But even when I’d managed to switch sides . . . Well, no one wants to be the co-pilot of an ex-KGB pilot,” She confesses.  
“They won’t enter the drift with you?” He asks, shocked.  
“Not a single one,” She confirms. 

Steve’s reeling – he thinks of all the faces of his fellow Rangers, laughing and joking with him. He’s never felt more included than when he was side-by-side with them – and yet they all, each and every one of them, refused to try and pilot a jaeger with Natasha, just because of her past and her last name. 

“What about – what about Sam? – Sam Wilson, his jaeger is Falcon Strike,” Steve asks, a somewhat desperate quality to his voice – because he can feel a bubble of anger rising in his chest at the injustice of it; the exclusion of this woman is riling him up, and he knows how he thinks it will end.  
“You know he’s happy with Ranger Barton, Rogers,” She reminds him, “Their synchronisation is at the highest level SHIELD’s seen in years. Around eighty-five percent, average,” Steve nods, scrambling to think of other pilots who would possibly be drift compatible with her. 

“Maria Hill?”  
“You know the deputy commander doesn’t enter the drift, anymore. Especially not with Russians,” Natasha reminds him, a little bitterly. He sighs, and rubs his face. “So to answer your question – I’m here to make you an offer,”  
He looks up, already knowing what she’s going to say, and feeling a sense of rising dread well up inside himself, as he realises he won’t be able to refuse. It wouldn’t be the right thing to do.  
“I want to undertake a test-drift with you. I want to see if we’re drift compatible, and then – well, we’ll see where it goes from there,” She tells him. She’s speaking as if it’s confirmed that it’s already going to happen. 

“. . . I don’t know if that would be such a good idea,” He says doubtfully.  
“Why not?” She asks.  
“My drifts – haven’t been the same. Five years ago there was – there was an accident-”

_"Steve!"_

“You lost a co-pilot,” She says, nodding.  
“I lost a best friend – and I felt him go. I watched him fall – he got, uh . . .” He swallows convulsively. Even years later, he feels acute anxiety and sadness explaining what happened; it's like a wound being torn open anew, raw and bleeding and weeping. “His arm was ripped off, while we were in the drift,”  
“You get residual pain. Fury mentioned,” Natasha says.  
“When he was telling you to come and ask me to be your co-pilot?” Steve asks.  
“When I was persuading him to let me come here,” She corrects. “It’s fine – I’ve piloted with men and women who’ve been injured in the drift. It’s still possible to establish a strong connection, regardless,”  
“But – well, I don’t know how to put this-”  
“You think your co-pilot will be in the drift?” She asks, as if she’s reading his mind – almost. 

Because if she was reading his mind, she’d know that he isn’t afraid that Bucky will be in the drift – he’s secretly afraid that he _won’t_ be. He’s scared that Bucky’s memory has decayed, and soured, and has been totally enveloped by the tragedy of that night: he’s scared that every memory he brings up will be of shattered bones and ripped flesh; mangled metal and screams in the darkness. He’s not sure he could cope, if those memories were all that greeted him in the drift – rather than the sweeter, gentler memories of their childhood together; Bucky’s dreams, where he and Steve went on dates, and told each other all those things left unsaid, and even _kissed_ -

No - if Romanoff saw those awful memories from the Gulf of Finland . . . She might think twice about wanting him as her co-pilot. 

“Steve,” She says, bringing him out of his reverie with a gentle, cautious hand on his arm, “Every pilot has baggage – they can’t help it. It’s hard to hide anything in the drift,” She reminds him, “But we’ll get around it. You’re objectively the best pilot there’s ever been – SHIELD knows it, the KGB knows it, and so do you, deep down inside,”  
“He was better,” Steve admits, his face grim, as he looks down.  
“You were both brilliant. I was trained watching footage of Justice Inferno – the way you took out kaiju like Redskull, and Faustus – you’re a legend. If anyone can get back into the game, it’s you – that’s what I’ve heard from Wilson and Barton, anyway,” She confides. He looks up at her, and into her eyes. For the first time since he met her, he feels he’s actually seeing her – but then the fleeting feeling is gone, as quickly as it arrived. Her walls are back up, and she’s sitting back – though she still maintains eye contact. 

_She wants me to trust her – but she doesn’t trust me, yet. Maybe she never will, after the betrayal of trust she suffered at the hands of the KGB . . . All those awful things she saw . . ._

Steve sighs in defeat, clasping his hands together, and leaning his elbows on his knees, as he looks at her and asks,  
“You sure you’re ready for this?”  
“Certain,” She says, the sincerity in her voice working to convince him.  
“When would we leave?” He asks.  
“Tomorrow,”

He stands up, and moves to the kitchen: she stands, too, watching him as he sets a pot on the stove.  
“Did you come far?” He asks, opening a cupboard and taking a few cans out.  
“It was a long drive, yes,” She says cryptically. He nods.  
“Need a place to stay?” He asks. For a brief moment, he considers his earlier theory that she’s there to kill him – but that glimpse he’d seen earlier, looking past her cleverly-constructed façade and truly at her, made him think otherwise.  
“Oh – I couldn’t-” She says, out of politeness more than anything.  
“It’s no problem. Chilli okay for you?” He asks, opening a can of kidney beans. She raises an eyebrow, and answers,  
“Yes, but-”  
“I’m no gourmet chef, but he always liked my chilli,” He says, forgetting she doesn't know who he's talking about; he has a one track mind, she finds. The way he speaks is almost casual – almost. But his voice is too strained with the weight of the sudden memory of he and Bucky eating a huge pot of the spicy dish between them. Steve would always end up with tears streaming down his face – Bucky added extra chillies, secretly – and Bucky would laugh at him; Steve would always get him back later, and the prank war would end in them wrestling each other to the floor, with Steve pinning Bucky down, looking into his eyes as they panted together, rosy-cheeked and completely and _utterly_ comfortable with being in that position . . . 

“. . . I’ll take the couch,” Natasha is saying, as Steve snaps out of his memories, blushing slighty – but fortunately turned away from her, as he works.  
“No – you take the bed. You’ve had a long journey,” He asserts. She crosses her arms.  
“They said you were a gentleman, Cap – but there’s no need for chivalry, and the couch will do me just fine,” She challenges him. 

He turns around, and looks her up and down with raised eyebrows; he smiles, slightly, at her defiant expression, daring him to argue. He thinks that he could grow to like Ranger Romanoff very much. Drift compatibility is another issue – but he can definitely see her being an ally of his, in the future. 

“Fair enough, Ranger Romanoff,” He acquiesces, lighting up the gas hob, and opening a tin of tomatoes. “. . . Just-” He pauses for a moment, and steels himself before repeating the painful old nickname, “ -don’t call me _Cap_ ,”


	3. Chapter 3

They’ve barely entered the control deck that looks out over the Shatterdome's jaeger hangar, but immediately Steve’s met with awed stares and hushed voices; a few people call to him, greeting him in a way they perceive to be friendly:  
“Hey, it’s Captain America!”  
“Cap’s back-”  
“Good to have you back, Cap!” 

Steve has to stop himself from flinching when he hears that name. It fills him with dread, and bitterness – it’s a reminder of all that he’s lost. Sure, he still loves his country, and he still feels a sense of duty . . . But somewhere along the way, he lost what he was really fighting for, all along. _Who_ he was really fighting for. 

It’s then that Natasha steps up: she physically steps in front of him, staring down the crewmembers who look to be rushing at him, with beaming smiles and pens for autographs in their hands. He’s a celebrity, yeah – but he deserves some privacy. And she makes sure he gets it. 

Steve immediately sees why she sought him out: everyone here appears afraid of her. As she looks around the room, standing her ground protectively in front of him, the faces of those who would bother him fall. They look at her with a mixture of fear and dislike – suspicion, is the word he’d use. He feels ashamed of himself, for having that same attitude to her at first – especially now she’s defending him from people who insist on calling him _that_. 

“I can fight my own battles, Natasha,” He says to her, quietly.  
“You shouldn’t have to – that’s what this is all about. Partnership,” She tells him, not looking at him. He opens his mouth to reply, but can’t find a good reason to defy her. After a moment’s pause, they make their way to the central console, where Nick Fury himself stands. 

“Director Fury, sir,” Natasha calls to him, drawing his attention, and causing him to turn around. He looks the same as he always did, to Steve – same eye patch, same coat, same base level of mistrust of everyone around him, no matter his level of respect for them. Peculiarly, he seems to get on fine with Natasha. 

“Damn – guess I owe you fifty bucks,” Fury says, addressing Natasha, before turning to Steve. “Ranger Rogers – good to have you back,” He says, taking Steve’s hand and shaking it.  
“I’m not sure you have me yet, sir,” Steve replies honestly.  
“Well, that all depends on what happens in about thirty minutes,” Nick tells him.  
“Thirty minutes . . . ?” Steve asks, confused. He looks at Natasha. She just smiles. 

Fury sighs, and turns back to the window of the control deck; he looks out onto the hangar, clasping his hands behind his back for a moment.  
“Did Ranger Romanoff tell you how much worse it’s gotten since the accident?” He inquires, turning his head to look at Steve, who steps up beside him, looking out at the jaegers, lined up in a row.  
“She mentioned it, on the way over,”  
“Well she wasn’t kidding,” Nick confirms. “We need to get you back in the saddle, Cap. You’re one of our best, and we’ve already wasted enough time – so we need you as soon as possible. So, your test run with Romanoff will be within the hour,”  
“Wait, hang on – I’m not ready. I don’t have a suit, and I can’t just-”  
“We have self-adjusting suits now, Rogers. Things have really moved on in five years,” Fury tells him.  
“But sir-” Steve begins to protest, although he knows it’s useless – once Nick Fury has decided he wants something, it’s damn hard to get him to change his mind.  
“Your jaeger’s been repaired, too,” Nick points out, pointing to one of the jaegers in the line-up. "Reinforced since the accident,"

That makes Steve shut his mouth, and follow where Fury’s pointing. 

He almost didn’t spot Justice Inferno – almost. His eyes had skimmed over it, perhaps avoiding looking at that jaeger again subconsciously . . . But there it is. The gunmetal grey metal contrasts with the white wings drawn on either side of the cockpit, just like it used to; the red, white and blue flames are still intact, though a little scratched – even their jaeger has battle scars. The whole left, for example, is slightly shinier than the right, after being replaced more recently. Clearly, she hasn’t been on many missions since the accident. 

Steve remembers when Bucky added the decorative paint – he’d done it for Steve’s birthday. Bucky had always been better at all that art stuff than Steve, but Steve had wanted Justice Inferno to have a personal touch, just like the stars and stripes of the jaeger they’d seen defending New York when they were growing up. Bucky had taken the idea to heart: he’d stealthily snuck into the hangar at night, and decorated their craft, without Steve’s knowledge. When Steve had seen it, he’d been breathless – he'd come into the hangar that morning, and Bucky had been sitting on the left arm of the craft, grinning down at him with paint smeared on his clothes, arms and face. 

_Happy birthday, punk._

“Rogers?”  
“Hmm?” Steve asks. He realises he’s been smiling softly – like an _idiot_ – for a few minutes, now.  
“The director was just saying he’s made some upgrades to Justice Inferno, and we’ll be testing our drift in her,”  
“Don’t we have to do some sort of combat training first? Make sure we’re even a little bit compatible?” Steve asks.  
“No time, Cap. We have to rush these things through, nowadays – welcome to the future,”  
And, with that, Steve is ushered from the control desk by Ranger Romanoff. He barely has time to move his sparse belongings into their new quarters, before he’s being rushed into the hangar. 

-

The one face he’s happiest to see, out of all of them, is Sam’s. Just as he’s finished getting into his _self-adjusting suit_ (which is a pretty weird experience), Sam rounds the corner, and catches Steve’s eye:  
“Hey! Hey, Rogers!” He calls to him, waving and smiling excitedly.  
“Hey, Sam,” Steve replies, with a smaller smile, as his friend approaches.  
“Didn’t know you were coming back, man! What made you change your mind?” He asks, shaking Steve’s hand. He’s in his own suit, and Clint is trailing after him, arriving a few moments later. They must just have been in the drift together.  
“I did,” Natasha answers for him, coming up behind Steve, and standing beside him. Sam looks a little confused, for a moment, looking between them.  
“Natasha Romanoff, this is Sam Wilson,” Steve introduces them.  
“Ranger Romanoff? . . . She’s gonna be your co-pilot?”  
“If we’re drift compatible, yeah – looks that way,” Steve answers, with a polite smile. 

Sam huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head.  
“I never met anyone who could convince Steve to do anything he didn’t want to – you must be one hell of a woman,” Sam tells her, extending his hand to her. She takes it, and smiles – though there’s a hint of warning in her words:  
“One hell of a pilot, actually,” She nods at Ranger Barton cordially. He nods back, and with a smirk. Something tells Steve that Barton isn’t one of the ones who's been prejudiced against working with Natasha – in fact, he thinks quite the opposite is true. 

“Come on – we’ve gotta get going. Fury’s gonna be mad if we make him wait any longer,” Natasha tells Steve, who nods.  
“Right – nice seeing you,” Steve tells Sam, and nods at Clint.  
“See you for a drink after your drift?”  
“Sure. Why not?” Steve replies, forcing a smile. Sam’s one of his best friends in the whole world, and he loves spending time with him – but he has the feeling that, after this drift, he’s not gonna feel like talking to anyone at all. He thinks he’ll want to be alone, after this. 

He follows Natasha up the stairs to board Justice Inferno, entering through the back of the cockpit. Natasha seals the door behind them – no technicians are needed to fix them into the machines anymore. The jaeger registers their presence without them starting it up and, when they move into position, the automatic fixings fasten them in place. Within minutes, they’re ready to drift. Steve thinks to himself that it’s all gone way too fast, for him – he’d rather be back at home, working out, or reading, or doing _anything_ to distract himself from the fact this is happening right now. 

He’s on the starboard side, of course – with Natasha on his left. He looks over to her, adjusting the position of his head to her height. He’s used to someone a little taller than her being there, of course. 

As he slips his helmet on, fastening it in place, Natasha tells him:  
“I know I can’t replace your old co-pilot – the one you lost . . . But I’m still a damn good pilot. And for what it’s worth, I’d really like to work with you,” She tells him. It’s clear from her pauses, and the tone of her voice, that she’s fully aware that she doesn’t measure up to Steve’s exacting standards. She doesn’t know much about his old co-pilot – doesn’t even know his name – but she knows all the other pilots Steve tried to work with after his death weren’t up to scratch. 

She won’t become another chapter of failure in the long history of Steve Rogers’ jaeger-piloting career, though. She’s damn good, and she’s going to prove it. She puts her helmet on, a determined look on her face. 

“Ready to drift, Rangers?” Maria Hill’s voice comes through on the coms. _Just like the good old days_ , Steve thinks.  
“It’s good to hear your voice, Maria,” Steve says, with a smile, “Sorry I didn't see you. Fury wanted us in the drift as soon as possible,” He apologises.  
“It’s not your fault, Cap – you ready to go, Romanoff?” She asks, her voice a little more clipped when it comes to addressing Steve’s co-pilot. Natasha rolls her eyes, but confirms,  
“Ready and waiting,” She says. Steve thinks to himself that the amount of prejudice she’s facing just for being Russian is a little unsettling – sure, she might have made some not-so-great choices in the past, but she’s atoning now . . . Well, he hopes she is. He guesses he’s about to see. 

“Initiate drift,” 

The two of them take a tentative step together, watching each other’ movements from the corners of their eyes. But the readouts let them know that, surprisingly, they manage to achieve seventy-five percent synchronisation right out of the gate. Natasha lets out a happy little laugh that Steve wouldn’t have thought she’d be capable of; he finds himself grinning, too, as the readouts around them flash green. Seventy-five percent, or higher, is good news – from any perspective. The best Steve had gotten with those other pilots was around forty percent. 

_This . . . This could work_ , he thinks to himself. He sees hundreds of technicians and a few pilots standing around outside Justice Inferno – some of them are clapping, some have folded arms. He’s not sure what they’re feeling about the fact that a Russian is helping _Captain America_ pilot his jaeger, right now. 

Then, the drift starts. And it’s black. 

It fades into life – or, something like it. It’s shadowy, murky: no images are present, yet. Just shapes. _That’s normal_ , Steve thinks. _Only me and Bucky could get images immediately – usually you start off small, work your way up-_

Only, now he’s thought of Bucky’s name. He’s only aware he’s done so when his left arm starts to cramp. Then, he realises they’re in trouble.  
“Oh, crap-”

_The swirling blackness of the drift becomes a dark blue: it’s Bucky’s eyes, surrounded by those little laughter lines – those little facial expressions he makes when he’s drunk, and he gets a little hands-on, hugging Steve, hands in his hair, kissing his cheek, drunkenly whispering that they should go somewhere before unceremoniously passing out on Steve’s shoulder before he can even finish the sentence-_

“Steady, Cap,” Maria warns over the coms.  
“Steve,” Natasha says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.  
“Sorry – sorry, I – I knew this would happen,” He mutters, and the series of close-ups disappear. Steve never sees his full face, full body – just snapshots of a life half-lived, and snatched away from them both. 

They were something. They could have been something _more_. 

He tries to withdraw slightly, and is relieved when Natasha’s connection gets stronger: he sees a young Natasha – a ballerina, pirouetting en pointe, to the tune of music that only she and him can hear. She’s graceful: as he watches, she grows in age, always turning and turning and turning. 

“You’re very skilled,” He tells her, his voice quietly awed.  
“Thank you,” She replies, though her voice is far-away. 

_A man watches her dance. He leans against a wall-length mirror, arms folded, and though Steve can’t see his face, he knows he’s smiling. He is fond of Natasha._

“I don’t really speak about those old days,” Natasha confesses. “They were a long time ago, and I don’t really remember them,” 

That much is evident, in the way the drift skips, and shakes – the only thing that remains consistent is the twirling of the ballerina, stuck on repeat. The man comes and goes – he’s only there when she’s almost the age she is now, give or take a few years. 

_The ballerina fades away, and there’s the sound of gunfire – Natasha is in a firefight, blasting her way around what appears to be some kind of maze. Steve watches in confusion: the gunfire makes him flinch, as men drop to the ground in her wake. She’s an incredibly skilled combatant: as a part of his training, and his efforts to become fit and healthy before signing up, Steve learned to fight with the best of them . . . But her style is almost surgical. Tightly controlled, yet vicious: it’s a pleasure to watch, if a little scary. He can see the ballerina in the fight – turning, and turning, and turning-_

_She gets to the end of the maze, and is congratulated by a shadowy man – the same man? Who knows – who shakes her hand. The men she’s felled get up – though they’re a little sore, they’ll live. A training exercise._

“The KGB,” She tells Steve, shaking her head. “If only I’d known,”  
“But you didn’t – it’s fine,” 

The drift blossoms pink – the colour of compassion, any pilot knows.  
“Synchronisation at eighty percent. Nice job, Rangers,” Maria Hill says, sounding cautiously excited, over the coms.  
“I guess five years out of action didn’t do you any harm, Rogers,” Natasha tells him, looking over to him and smiling. 

_The drift reflects them: it shows their first meeting, with Steve smiling politely, and Natasha smiling back. How far they’ve come already – you can’t hide anything in the drift, after all._

_Can’t hide anything._

When Steve looks to his left, smiling, and ready with a witty retort, the system goes haywire – and immediately, he knows it’s not the jaeger, or Natasha – it’s him. 

_It’s Bucky. He sees Bucky in Natasha’s place – in the drift, he’s smiling at Bucky._

_“I’m with you til the end of the line,”_

_That same montage of pictures appears on screen: the one of all the times Bucky told him he’d be with him til the end of the line. But instead of being awash with colours, and a source of warmth and comfort, it loses all saturation: it grows grey and pale, and the images overlap each other, blurred and scratched and sounding like a broken record –_

_I’m – I’m with – with you – you til – til the end-_

“Rogers!” Natasha warns him, sounding a little panicked all of a sudden. But he can’t draw his eyes away from the drift – trying to enter the drift with all those other pilots never felt like _this_ , cause he never synchronised enough with them to show them his thoughts – never synchronised enough to show them Bucky-

_But now, I can find him in the drift._

“Synchronisation at 50 percent and falling – Romanoff, do something - snap him out of it-”

She pushes with all of her mental strength: suddenly, they’re not working together and in sympathy – they’re warring. Though Steve doesn’t know it, his brain is fighting hers for dominance – she’s trying to push the images of the Russian ballerina into the drift, but it’s not working: the onslaught of images of Steve’s co-pilot is too strong. Just when she thinks she might have the upper hand, she glances at the memories Steve’s dazed mind is producing, as he stares longingly into the drift, enraptured and hypnotised – and her brain short-circuits, looking at the images. 

The synchronisation stops falling. It stays put exactly where it is. Because now, they’re experiencing the same memory – or two very much like one another. 

_Steve and Bucky walk alongside each other. Bucky’s got his arm awkwardly slung over Steve’s shoulder, though he’s taller – his swagger, his gait – they’re different – but those blue eyes, that battle-hardened face, those pink lips, that strong body –_

“. . . Bucky Barnes,” She whispers. Steve looks over at her for a moment, before an image of her holding some dog-tags in the drift catches his eye. 

_She turns the dog-tags over in her hands – it’s Natasha what couldn’t have been more than a couple of months ago, and she’s handling the tags carefully. Her movements are quick – she’s trying not to be caught, and the red of fear stains the whole drift. She’s not meant to be there – she’s not meant to have those dog-tags-_

“Rangers, we are going to have to pull the plug unless you stand down, _now_ -!” Maria Hill is warning. It sounds as if they’re about to pilot the thing right out of the hangar, if they’re not careful – but neither of them even notice. 

As Steve watches, the dog-tags fill up the drift, the whole thing tinted red around the edges: he can read them, now, and he swears he feels his heart skip a few beats. 

_Ranger James 'Bucky' Barnes. 32557038. SHIELD jaeger corps._

_The silhouette of Bucky being savaged by the kaiju, and falling, and screaming assaults them both, causing them twin sets of pain and anguish, as the dog-tags grow still larger._

“Bucky?” Steve whispers haggardly – and even over the cacophony of alarms all around them, as their stats and systems go hectic, she hears him. They’re drift compatible, after all.  
Natasha pushes down the pain of Steve’s co-pilot’s death, and manages to grit out:  
“Your co-pilot! . . . I know him-!” 

Then Maria Hill hits the panic button, and shuts the drift down in a matter of seconds. The last image imprinted on their retinas is the silhouette of a shaggy-haired man, with a stance that oozes strength and stealth, staring out at the both of them with eyes tinted red by the blood-saturated drift. 

Steve can’t think – he can’t _breathe_ , and Natasha’s reeling – because they both know Bucky Barnes. They've just known him by two different names. 

“Steve,” Natasha pants, looking at him with horror and sympathy etched onto her features, “. . . I’m so sorry,”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! So you might notice I'm taking some artistic liberties with international relations - as I said before, the attitudes towards the Russians seen here do not reflect my personal beliefs. I wanted a cold war feel to accompany this fic, as I've really loved studying that period of history in the past, and I think it makes for interesting fiction. So, yes, the KGB is no longer in existence in reality - but it's a really REALLY important part of Natasha's past, and Bucky's storyline, so I've included it here. 
> 
> Given that it's an AU, I've shaken things up a little bit. It's science fiction, after all. I really hope you like the end product!! Thanks for reading :))

“Rogers, please – if you’d just calm down-”  
“Calm down?! – Sir, she says she knows Bucky! How can that even be possible?!”

Steve’s aware his voice is way too loud for the situation he’s in, but he doesn’t care – he feels unable to control himself. He’s brimming over with confusion, anger, and _fear_. It’s definitely not a pleasant feeling. He faces Nick Fury, his chest heaving: he’s still not come down from the shock and adrenaline he found in the drift, and he still doesn't fully comprehend what Ranger Romanoff told him.

Natasha had been ushered clear of the jaeger, and taken for medical treatment, as soon as they’d emerged: Steve had been, too, just to check that he was okay – after all, some pilots who have a rough drift experience can sometimes show physical symptoms. While they were both shaken, they’re both fine – and drift compatible, no one can deny. But Steve doesn’t know where Ranger Romanoff is now, and he has so many questions.

“That is classified information, Rogers – all intelligence Ranger Romanoff has agreed to share with us was only offered on the condition that it would be kept _private_ ,” Fury explains to him, patient yet unyielding. Steve opens his mouth to shout some more (though it’s like screaming at a brick wall), but he’s interrupted:  
“It’s okay, Nick. I want to tell him,”

Steve looks around: Natasha Romanoff is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, and looking a little shaken up. The both of them experienced Bucky’s death, in there – though not as painful as the first time round was for Steve and Bucky alike, it was still traumatic. Not only that, but Natasha is clearly joining up the dots in her head: she knows things Steve doesn’t, and she’s filling in the blanks. From her face, he knows the things she’s thinking about aren’t very nice.

“Well – guess he can stay for the debrief then, if you _trust_ him so much, Ranger Romanoff . . . Cause I’m starting to wonder what the hell went on in that cockpit myself,” Nick Fury tells her, and gestures to her to sit down. They’re in the director’s personal office: Steve wasn’t invited, but after he couldn’t see Natasha, he went to the next culpable person he could think of in the short amount of time he’d been free of medics pestering him.

Natasha sits, and stares at Steve, expecting him to join her – but he continues standing. She shifts slightly, clasping her hands together; she fidgets, clearly distressed.

“I was . . . Unaware, that Ranger Rogers’ dead co-pilot was James Barnes,” She says, trying to keep her voice firm and professional as she speaks.  
“You knew Barnes? – How?” Nick asks, frowning. He leans against his desk, crossing his arms with a displeased expression on his face. Steve just stands and stares: he can’t hear the truth quickly enough.  
“Not knew – _know_ . . . To the best of my knowledge, James Barnes is alive,”  
“What?” Steve breathes. It’s the conclusion he’d reached by himself, but he hadn’t dared to consider that it was true – it just seems too fortunate, that every prayer he’s said since Bucky left him has been answered. “How?” He prompts her, quickly.

She sighs, collecting her thoughts for a second before continuing:  
“He’s a legend – at least, in the KGB. During my training, I saw him a few times . . . But his story proceeds him. He’s a figurehead – a poster-boy for the KGB, inspiring all the pilots to try their best, in the knowledge that the motherland has superior technology to SHIELD,” She tells them, though her tone is bitter towards the end of the sentence.

“Bucky would never do that,” Steve denies, shaking his head, with a gesture of refusal.  
“That’s the thing, Steve,” She says, finally looking up from the point on the floor she’s been looking at during her recollection, and into his eyes. “He didn’t choose it – that’s part of the story,”  
“What are you implying, Ranger Romanoff?” Nick asks, leaning forward with a guarded look in his eye.  
“He’s a legend for a reason . . . Five years ago, they say they pulled him from the sea. They say he was one of America’s best pilots – they didn’t mention he was _your_ partner, Steve, or else I would have put two and two together. They never showed you together – just footage of you, and footage of him, separately. I guess they didn’t want any of us to think the Winter Soldier ever needed help from the guy everyone calls _Captain America_ ,”

“. . . Wait, wait – Winter Soldier?” Steve asks, confused, with a sinking feeling in his gut. Natasha nods.  
“It’s what they call him – they didn’t use his real name. The propaganda films and the newsreels made it sound as if he never had a name at all,” She remembers.  
“But he must know who he is,” Steve objects – _he must remember me_ , he thinks. _Why hasn't he been in contact? Even if he's being coerced, he could still try and get a message to me, or something to let me know he's alive-_

Natasha grimaces, and shakes her head.  
“Steve . . . He didn’t choose to fight for us, and he doesn’t remember himself, because he’s been brainwashed,”

There’s a long pause, in which Steve’s jaw drops; Nick Fury waits for her to clarify, or say she’s joking.  
“Come again?” Fury asks, his face stormy.  
“The experiments I told you about, Nick – they’ve only had a handful of success stories, but he’s one of them . . . First of all, they took his identity – convinced him to be loyal to us, and only us. Then they – they made him into the best combatant I’ve ever seen. When it comes to piloting jaegers – he’s brought in to show the others how it’s done. He’s deadly, single-minded, and he never slows down – he’s the best pilot they’ve ever produced,” She says, looking regretfully at Steve some of the time – the rest of the time, she just can’t bear it. She’s been in the drift with him, now: his pain is hers, and she can empathise with what he’s feeling right now.

 _Initial relief. Horror. Grief. Shock. Sadness . . . Betrayal._ It’s written all over his face, clear as day for her to see, even without her insight into the workings of his mind. It’s clear as day, also, that he loved the man she’s always called Winter Soldier.

“Yeah – that’s cause they _didn’t_ produce him,” Fury says, scrubbing at his face wearily, and looking much older than Steve’s ever seen him. The news that the Russians not only have the technology to brainwash men, but that they’ve used it on one of his Rangers, is clearly the worst he’s had in a good, long while – and that’s even with the worsening of the kaiju attacks.

There’s a pause, in which Steve shifts slightly, folding his arms, and visibly bracing himself for more information, as he asks:  
“How did you find out his real name, if you were only ever told he was this . . . _Winter Soldier_?” He asks, the name sour on his tongue.  
“It – was an accident, at first. I was raised KGB, I never had cause to doubt them – but one day I was in the wrong place at a _worse_ time, and I saw – I saw them programming him. Conditioning him, brainwashing him . . . He was talking to them beforehand, he didn’t look anything like I remembered from my training sessions with him: he always looked so cold and calculated. But he looked . . . Scared, and confused. And lost,” She recounts. “Then they started, and he – he was in pain, and he started screaming – that’s when I knew something was really wrong, so . . . Well, I decided to use the skills they gave me to find out about the torture, and the experiments.  
“When I dug deep enough, I found out his real identity – his dog tags, and medical files – I would have gotten him out, but it was too risky. I’d never have made it out alive, with their secret weapon. And with his conditioning, he wouldn’t have wanted to come, anyway . . . I’m sorry, Steve,”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. He’s never wanted a drink as badly as he does right now – but he won’t do it. When he and Bucky went out, Bucky liked to drink – it was funny, it was cute, but Steve never wanted to join him, himself. He didn’t like to drink, and besides – if they ever got into trouble, one of them needed to look out for the other one. Bucky looked after him all those other times, the least he could do is return the favour.

Even with Bucky gone, now, he doesn’t want to drink . . . _Gone_. Alive, but out of reach – not even aware who he is.

_Scared, and confused. Lost._

Bucky needed him back then – and Bucky needs him now. _But I can’t reach you – you’re so far away, and I can’t get to you. Knowing you’re alive gives me hope, but . . . But what they’ve done to you_ -

“Ranger Romanoff . . . Barnes was reported as missing his left arm, in Ranger Rogers' report,” Nick Fury says, broaching the subject with caution. Steve looks up, at that, looking from Fury to Natasha. He’d completely forgotten, in his grief. His left arm starts to cramp, the shooting pains starting up, as Natasha licks her lips, pausing for a second before adding the final nail to the coffin of Steve’s emotional wellbeing – whatever state it was in, before she arrived, anyway.

“. . . He had it amputated. They couldn’t save it – he suffered lacerations to his whole left side, but the arm was the worst . . . They gave him a metal arm,”  
“What?” Steve asks. Not because he doesn’t understand – because he can’t believe it. Or doesn’t want to.  
“It’s cybernetic,” She explains, “It’s wired into him, with its own nerve endings - so when he pilots a jaeger, it hooks into the machine, meaning he can take more of the neural load. It’s part of the reason he’s such a good pilot – I mean, aside from the fact he was, before the surgery. When he pilots, he becomes part of the machine – it’s an extension of him. The other pilot is generally only there to stabilise him. He can get violent, and erratic . . . Guess we know why, now,” She adds, in a low voice, referring to the torture and brainwashing he’s faced.

“My God,” Fury mutters, turning away from the two of them, and looking out across the hangar. His office sits directly on top of the Shatterdome’s control deck: from there, he sees everything. But, even with what he knew about Natasha and her intel, he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to see this transpire.

“I – we’ve gotta go back to get him,” Steve says, sounding slightly desperate – but always with the authoritative tone in his voice. As one of the jaeger corps’ most respected and skilful pilots, he’s frequently fallen into the role of giving orders in the past.  
“Steve-” Natasha begins, looking sad.  
“No – no, you saw him – it isn’t right to just leave him there!” He insists.  
“And how do you wanna get him out, Rogers? Go behind enemy lines, try and kidnap him? . . . You’re no spy – and trust me when I say, the KGB won’t just hand him over,” Natasha tells him bluntly, realising the _softly, softly_ approach probably won’t work with him in his current state.

“Actually,” Fury says, drawing both of their attentions. “We’re looking into working with the Russians, again,” He tells them, his face determinedly blank of any sort of expression – no hope, no anticipation of failure. Steve doesn’t know whether to be excited, or disappointed.  
“You’ve offered to work with them before – they always refuse,” Natasha reminds him, not wanting to get Steve’s hopes up for nothing.  
“It’s different this time – they contacted us first,”

Natasha goes slightly pale, when she hears that: Steve sees her gulp, and her subtle fear sets him on edge. He certainly got the _unflappable_ feel from her, in the drift. Maybe it was just a front – which, to him, raises the question, _how did she manage to hide that from me? Who the hell can lie in the drift?_

“What?” She asks, quietly.  
“Look – before you get too excited, either of you,” He says, “It’ll take months to broker a deal. Don’t ask me how, but they know we know about some of their _experiments_ – in light of that, in order to work with us, they’re looking for diplomatic immunity, so they can’t be held accountable for what they’ve done,”  
“But they need to answer for it! – There’s no way we can let them get away with what they’ve done to Bucky!” Steve protests, his anger gathering force again. He never did let a bully get away without serving them justice, first. Or at least trying to.  
“You might not have a choice, Rogers,” Fury says sternly, his voice slightly raised. “. . . Look. The kaiju attacks are getting worse – even the Russians are now realising they can’t go it alone. I don’t know what made them change their minds, but now, they want to work with SHIELD,” He says, though he sounds sceptical.

“There’s no way,” Natasha says, standing up slowly. “This has to be a trap, sir – they would never willingly work with SHIELD,”  
“Unless something was really, _really_ wrong – which it _is_ ,” Fury retorts. “Look around you – we’ve got more jaegers than ever, and Stark working on his one-man jaeger project – but not enough truly good pilots. None as good as Rogers and Barnes, five years ago – we can’t keep up, and neither can the KGB. So it’s time for drastic measures,” He tells them. They look out across the hangar – they realise it’s true.

Justice Inferno, Falcon Strike, and Alpha Thunder – the director’s old jaeger, now piloted by Rangers Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis – are the only jaegers with crews who are fully drift compatible, and combat-ready with synchronisation above seventy percent.

“I’m not suggesting we trust them – but we have to work something out, because time is wasting,” Fury tells them, looking out across the hangar with a concerned expression.  
“So you’re gonna work out a deal with them? Even after what they’ve done?” Steve asks, his mouth a grim line.

“I’m going to do what I have to, Ranger,” Fury tells him, his tone harsh and reprimanding. “And until I can strike up a deal, I suggest you do, too – prepare yourself for future missions. Pending your first performance, Romanoff is your new co-pilot,”

Steve holds his gaze for a moment, before turning away, and striding for the door.

He’s down the stairs, and half way to their quarters, when Natasha catches him up.  
“Steve – wait,” She calls to him, getting in front of him and blocking his path. Her expression is steadfast, but not completely unyielding. There’s a note of softness in her eyes that he’s seldom seen before, even in the drift.  
“It’s going to be months before we strike a deal – if we ever do. I wouldn’t give Fury such a hard time over it,” She tells him.  
“How can you say that, when you've seen what they've done to Bucky?” He asks her, trying to keep his voice even; trying to rid it of the emotion that threatens to spill over, into his speech. He knows it isn't _her_ fault, after all.

She doesn’t have an answer for him – she purses her lips, and shifts where she stands. She knows she won’t convince him.  
“. . . The one good thing that could come out of this is seeing him again,” He says, looking at the floor.

_I’m with you til the end of the line._

“You know he’ll be different, right? . . . What if he can’t remember you?” Natasha asks. Steve sighs, but plants his feet, and tells the truth:  
“I’m willing to risk it – if they let him free. The price of freedom is always high – but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. If he can’t remember me . . . Then so be it. At least he’ll be away from them – and their lies,”

She nods, and after a second, smiles sadly:  
“You really loved him, didn’t you?” She asks, levelly. He opens his mouth to reply, but finds the words won’t come out – he almost can’t bring himself to say the them. He finds it’s easier if he doesn’t look at her while he says it, and so walks past her, off to go and shower this awful day off of himself, and calls back,

“I still do,”

-

Even amongst the bad news coming through every day, about kaiju attacks and the negotiations with the Russians alike, not everything is bad - Steve reminds himself of that every day. He tries his best to be optimistic, because he really can’t see any other alternative.

After their initial drift, he and Natasha form a shaky alliance: a friendship, he’d call it . . . But there’s something about their drift. Sure, it’s good – they’re compatible – but there’s something that makes him wonder, every time.

He’s seen her case file – Nick showed him the severely pared down version he has clearance to see, with her permission. Most of it was blotted out with black – pages and pages worth, lost to him – but her name wasn’t. It appeared her name was Natalia Romanova – or some Russian equivalent he’s ashamed to say he probably can’t read, or pronounce adequately.

The thing is, in the drift, all her memories involve her being addressed as ‘Natasha’. It’s a minor detail – but to him, it doesn't seem right. When he figures out that her memories feature an anachronistic version of her name that he doesn't think the Russians would have called her by, he grows suspicious, once more, of her – because if she’s altering her memories, it means she’s definitely lying in the drift, as he suspected before.

No one can hide in the drift – no one, except her, apparently. Multiple times.

It makes him uneasy: he feels he can’t be as honest with his co-pilot as he’d like, and that’s never a good state of affairs. Sure, their first few missions are success stories – small kaiju that come slithering through the breach; each fight is over in a matter of minutes – but he’s afraid that if he can’t trust her, then one day, they will make a mistake that will cost them not only their own lives, but the lives of the people they’re trying to protect.

There are only so many jaegers, after all; only so many pilots.

Steve guesses it’s because he doesn’t trust her completely, that he doesn’t see much of Bucky in the drift. He’ll get the occasional glimpse of him – both from her, and from himself – but not to the extent that caused them to get shut down last time. _Not enough._

That image of a shaggy-haired man (with what he now knows was a metal arm) that appeared in the last second of their very first drift appears only every so often: when explosions crash all around them, and they suffer impacts, or throw punches, he’s there. Natasha’s mind throws up the back-lit image, like a great looming spectre – and they both know who it is.

_Bucky. The Winter Soldier._

Steve simultaneously wants to see more of him, and doesn’t think he can bear it. On some level, he realises he wants the negotiations with the Russians to fail, because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to face seeing Bucky like that – _especially if he doesn’t remember me, like she says he won’t_ – but on every other level, he knows he should want the negotiations to succeed. The Russians need them, and they could benefit from extra scientists, and technology, and pilots.

Bucky needs him, too. Whether he knows it or not, Bucky needs him. He needs saving from those creeps.

The same creeps he’s going to have to work with, if these negotiations ever reach some sort of agreement – but he knows, he’s not got to like it. He’s just got to _do it_.

He’s still in the same old room as he was before: only, this time, Natasha is on the bottom bunk, and he’s on the top. The place has been used by pilots in between – but Bucky’s locker is like a mausoleum, kept exactly the same, with the same number combination. He guesses no one worked out that the combination was his birthday.

One day he visits it: seeing Bucky’s stuff is like his own personal form of torture. As he stares into the dark locker, one thing stands out to him: Bucky’s sketchbook. _He never let me see this damn thing_. Part of him thinks that he shouldn’t be looking, now, either – but he thinks, _as long as I leave the rest of it alone. He might want it back, one day. If he remembers it’s here._

As he looks through the drawings, he wonders to himself whether the reason Bucky was always much more vocal than him in the drift was because he has a much more visual way of thinking – he has an eye for colour, and form, and it used to show up in the drift. Nowadays, Steve’s drifts are always muted, at best – Bucky’s influence used to make the whole thing light up, like the fourth of July. _Like a jaeger painted red, white and blue for my birthday._

He grins at the pictures of beautiful dames Bucky’s scribbled in the front of the book: red dresses, blue dresses; pink lips, red lips. There are trees, and houses – where they grew up in Brooklyn. The gutters, the alleyways – _hey, I got beat up there – and there_ –

Then there are the pictures of Steve - more and more of them, the further through the book he gets. They’re quick sketches, mostly – like he did them when Steve wasn’t looking. He only caught him drawing once or twice: he was pretty stealthy about it, and he never let Steve see what he was doodling. _This is sacred ground_ , Steve thinks, reverently, as he handles the book. _But he’d want you to have it, now._  
Steve swallows, as he realises he’s been thinking about Bucky like he's dead.

_Is he dead? Is my Bucky gone, forever? Can I only ever find him in the drift? . . . Even then, I can’t trust anyone enough to share him with them – can’t see him whenever I want, can’t talk to him, tell him I love his drawings, and he’s a jerk for drawing me, but he’s so talented, and – and-_

He takes the book with him, when he goes back to his dorm. Tentatively, he picks up a pencil, and shuts his eyes. He knows it might be sacrilege to do this, but he has to – he has to put the memory he’s seen so many times in the drift somewhere. It’s always the same image: like a photograph, but clearly taking heaving breaths; always tinted red in the drift. _She associates him with fear._

He sucks at drawing - he hasn't practised in five years. But it’s not hard to draw a silhouette: the shine on the arm is harder, and the hair shaggy from what he presumes is something like five years of growth.

Bucky always used to draw Steve – Steve wants to feel like he’s returning the favour, but he can’t.

_Is this even Bucky I’m drawing? . . . Or is he just a stranger?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! You've all been really supportive so far. I've just finished my 'Who the Hell is Bucky?' series, so this is now my only writing project. 
> 
> More mcu characters this chapter - I hope you like what I've done with them!!

“That’s good work, Rangers – prepare for evac in five,” 

The sun beats down on Justice Inferno, as the two pilots bask in their victory: today’s kaiju was a pretty big one. Not the biggest Steve’s ever seen – but big enough that the window is absolutely drenched in black blood, translucent and pervasive. Natasha’s nose wrinkles.  
“What’s the matter? Don’t like blood?” Steve asks sympathetically.  
“Hell no,” She says, “That crap stinks. Glad we’re not part of maintenance right now,” 

Steve laughs.  
“Yeah. We’re gonna be getting the stink-eye from Thor for about a week,” He agrees. The mechanic is in charge of maintenance of the jaegers – along with Stark, when he can be bothered to haul ass out of bed, and come to the Shatterdome in one of those fancy solo-pilot machines he’s yet to share with SHIELD – which means he’ll be the one who has to cope with the smelly, sticky black coating Justice Inferno gathered during their vicious fight. 

He knows, however, not to clean the Inferno so well that the paint comes off – he makes it clear to his team that the paint remains. Even when Steve wasn’t there, Thor made sure of that. If there’s one thing that mountain of a man loves, it’s jaegers – everything about them, from their mechanics, to their fighting capabilities, to the drift, and the pilots. He used to pilot with his brother, before there was some sort of family trouble – Steve doesn’t know what, only that Loki hasn’t been around the Shatterdome for years, and he was a bit of a loose cannon to begin with – but he’s told Steve before that he much prefers repairing them to piloting them, anyway. A guy as burly as him, Steve thinks, is best placed to be welding and sawing and hammering away at armour, anyway. 

The point is, he loves everything about jaegers: one of the things he loves most is the personal touches pilots add to their own crafts. So when Bucky painted the Inferno – _red white and blue, appropriate for her name, and for Steve’s nickname_ – he’d laughed that full-body laugh, and clapped him on the back, saying he liked it. 

Thor was a lot less boisterous after Bucky died – except when it came to berating the pilots that failed to drift properly with Steve. It wasn’t their fault: they just weren’t drift compatible. But Thor gave them a hard time, anyway. It wasn’t fair, or right – but it happened. 

“You mean he’s gonna give _me_ the stink-eye,” Natasha mutters, as they feel the cables used for transporting the craft back to the hangar being attached to the outside of the jaeger.  
“Okay, yeah,” Steve concedes. Thor’s a friend – but he doesn’t know Natasha as well as he knows Steve. He doesn’t seem to _dislike her_ , though, as much as the others do – especially since she got to speaking to him about how Russian jaegers differ from American ones. 

Of course, Thor’s only the body-work guy – the guy behind the drift technology is Banner. And Stark, well . . . He consults on _everything_ , when SHIELD can get their hands on him. 

“Listen, Natasha – I was thinking, maybe we could go out for a drink tonight? I'm meeting up with Sam, if you want to come along?” Steve asks, tentatively. The drift is still going – right now, it’s just Natasha’s memories of a pirouetting ballerina, turning and turning and turning as usual, like a mental screensaver while she has no strong emotions – but at that moment, it becomes slightly tinted with red. The colour catches his eye, and he frowns slightly. She’s scowling. 

“Hey, don’t be afraid, it’d just be me and-”  
“I’m not afraid, Rogers,” She insists defensively. “I’m _anxious_. That’s orange, not red,” She says, pointing.  
“Oh . . . Right. Well – there’s no need to be anxious, Natasha,” He tells her gently, after noticing the nuance in the colour he'd failed to recognise before.  
“Yes there is,” She tells him dismissively.  
“Why?”  
“Cause they all hate me,” She reminds him, referring to all the other pilots.  
“No, they don’t. I don’t – Sam doesn’t. And I’m pretty sure Barton-”  
“Is an idiot . . . But you’re right, he does like me,” She concedes. Steve catches a glimpse of Barton smiling in the drift – he’s not sure he’s seen a smile that carefree on Barton’s face in . . . Well, ever. He averts his eyes. Some memories are private . . . He wonders if his theory about Natasha hiding things from him in the drift is true. 

“You two have a, uh . . . A history?” He asks, tentatively.  
“Steve, please,” She says in a way that clearly states, _you’re such a prude_. “We do go back a ways, yes – even before I left the Russians. You know he was in ops before he was in the jaeger corps, after all,”  
“. . . Right,” He says, putting that information on the backburner. “So – about that drink,” 

She sighs dramatically, as they’re lifted into the air – but when the drift turns dark blue, and he sees the memory of her huddled around a fire with nameless strangers, a faceless man throwing his arm around her shoulders to keep the warmth in while they drink together, he knows she’ll accept. Sure, she’s drinking in the memory – but that’s not how he knows she’ll accept the invite. He knows she will because that is a happy memory – and happy memories mean _hope_ , and _trust_. 

“Knew you’d come,” He says, a proud smirk on his face. 

Bucky winks out at him from the drift. For once, he doesn’t recoil. Their synchronisation doesn’t falter. Even knowing what he knows about Bucky, now . . . He’s coping. He’s _finally_ coping. 

He’s not okay to talk about it, but he’s managing his pain. And he does it all – _all of it_ – for Bucky. 

_He needs me_ , he thinks. It’s a tired mantra, by now – but it works. He only hopes it holds fast when – if – he sees Bucky again, whatever state he’s in. 

-

“Black Widow,”  
“No way – come on, that’s – _that’s awesome_ ,” 

Natasha shrugs, looking a little proud of herself. Sam’s smiling, completely impressed with her, obviously, and looking at her with something between awe and amusement. Steve looks up from Bucky's sketchbook - he's been doodling again, this time trying to catch the impression of his memory of Bucky winking at him from the drift. He looks between his fellow pilots, and knows tonight was a good idea.  
“I thought so too. That’s why I chose it,” Natasha tells him.  
“Didn’t they try and stop you? They must’ve had an idea of what they wanted to call it before your suggestion,” Steve asks. Natasha laughs slightly, and takes a sip of her beer.  
“They did, yes – but considering our jaeger names are also our code names, I thought I should have a say in it,” She tells them.  
“Fair play,” Sam concedes. He has a sip of beer; Steve holds onto his water tightly, his vision pinned to one spot on the table, his smile frozen on his face. 

“Uh-oh. What is it?” Sam asks, elbowing Steve in the side lightly. Steve looks up, and takes a deep breath.  
“Your jaeger names are your codenames?” He reiterates.  
“Sure. Then you have a lower-ranking co-pilot, with no codename, on your right. So there’s Black Widow, Red Guardian-”  
“Winter Soldier?” 

She pauses, looking Steve up and down, and sighing. Sam’s smile fades slightly.  
“. . . Yes. Winter Soldier,” She confirms. Steve nods, and takes a sip of his water. “I really can’t apologise enough, Steve,” She says. “If I’d have known, I would have told you before. Full disclosure,” 

Steve nods, “Full disclosure . . . Yeah, that’s – something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, actually,” He says, closing Bucky's sketchbook and setting it down on the table.  
“Steve?” Sam asks, concerned at his change in demeanour. He’s suddenly on edge – he doesn’t look comfortable, like he did before.  
“What?” Natasha asks Steve, eyeing him suspiciously.  
“I figured out a few weeks back that you’ve been – well, not _lying_ in the drift, but hiding things,” He explains. She straightens her back, looking at him with an analytical gaze. But he’s not aggressive, like she expects he might be – he’s completely calm, and he doesn’t look as if he’s about to lose it with her. Even after that mention of his old co-pilot back there.  
“How? . . . How do you do that?” He asks. He sounds like he’s begging, actually – as if he’d give anything to be able to hide things from her. _Able to hide Bucky, if things got really bad._

“It’s . . . Complicated,” She says, sighing, and sitting back slightly. Sam looks just as rapt as Steve, as she continues: “I received some medical adaptations which were said to be advantageous to jaeger pilots – these were different to the awful experiments I saw that made me want to leave the KGB, you understand. This was . . . Standard procedure. A few drugs, and a hell of a lot of training . . . They taught me to store things differently. _Think_ differently . . . It felt a little bit like they were pulling _me_ out, and shoving someone else back in,” She admits, biting her lip slightly. “It’s useful sometimes, but other times . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I want the level of trust you guys get, when you enter the drift. I have no idea if this makes me a better pilot, or a worse one,” She admits, and takes a long swig of her beer. 

“But it must be nice – to be able to keep some stuff private?” Steve persists.  
“Hey, man – give her a break,” Sam says, not unkindly. “There are things I’ve wanted to hide – but part of getting over them was sharing them. Means I can trust Barton fully – means he knows my limits, and he works with them,” He explains.  
“Riley?” Steve asks, suspecting he's referring to the accident that made him transfer from the military to SHIELD.  
Sam nods, and turns to Natasha, explaining, “Lost a co-pilot once. Not in the drift, like Steve – plane crash, flying over the breach. The plane got attacked by a kaiju - sucker just reached up, and tore it in half. It’s lucky I used to be a para-rescuer, or I’d have died that day . . . Riley got snatched outta the sky by that damn thing, and I got rescued. Even with his parachute on, there was . . . There was nothing I could do. It was like I was up there, just to watch,” He confesses and, though he’s clearly sad, he’s able to be measured and impressively level-headed throughout the story. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, bowing her head slightly, and maintaining eye contact. He nods.  
“It was a long time ago – but part of the recovery was sharing it with my new co-pilot,” He turns to Steve. “So don’t go wishing you could just put Bucky in some box, at the back of your mind, and let it get old and dusty – appreciate the fact you still got him in there, and you can share him. Cause she can’t,” Sam points out. 

Steve suddenly feels selfish – he feels like he’s been thinking too much about himself, and about his part of the drift. He’s a lot more vocal in the drift, these days: Bucky refuses to go away, now – but it’s a smiling, happy version of him, rather than the one from the day he died . . . Well, the day Steve _thought_ he died. 

Natasha always says she doesn’t mind. Steve never stopped to think that she actually _enjoyed_ Bucky being there – maybe it’s better to see him that way, than to see that version of him from her memories, with the metal arm and the shaggy hair and the scars and the _red-tinted fear-_

“. . . I thought you were afraid of him,” Steve tells her. Sam raises his eyebrows, looking between the two of them. Natasha sits forward slightly, leaning her elbows on the table, as she sets down her now-empty bottle of beer.  
“Why?” She asks, maintaining eye contact with him. He shifts uncomfortably – he feels so vulnerable, and he knows he looks it, too. For such an experienced pilot, he sure does have trouble discussing what goes on in the drift, Natasha thinks. _Maybe it’s cause him and the Winter Soldier never had to talk about it, when they were co-pilots. They just did it._

“That memory you have of him – the silhouette – it only appears for a second at a time. When there’s a loud noise, or we’re in danger, or – or you’re scared or shocked, in some way. And it’s always tinted red,” He points out. She nods, looking down at the empty bottle, and fiddling with it; moving it this way and that, turning it around in her fingers.  
“. . . That’s not fear _of_ him, Steve. It’s fear _for_ him,” She says plainly. 

And suddenly, it makes sense. He remembers her words – not the ones about him being a formidable fighter, or deadly, or whatever – but the ones about when she’d caught them brainwashing and experimenting on him, in what appeared to be a routine procedure. 

_He looked scared, and confused. And lost._

Because she’s never seen anything in her life whose memory has endured as an example of pure fear as well as her memory of Bucky being tortured. 

“Can I get some vodka shots, please?” Natasha calls to the barman. It’s late – they need to be up at 08:00 tomorrow for debriefing on their latest successful mission – _mission report, jaeger repairs, pointers for improvement etc._ – and consultation with Banner. 

But Sam joins Natasha in having a few vodka shots. Steve doesn’t – but as he watches her and Sam down the shots, drinking to the memory of Riley and the woeful tale of Ranger Barnes, he’s reminded of that memory he’d seen of Natasha’s, with her and her comrades huddling around a fire, drinking. 

He thinks to himself that maybe, despite all that supposed routine medical enhancement she’s endured, she might be overcoming the barriers in her mind – if she let that personal memory slip, rather than just the standard ballerina and KGB memories, then perhaps she’ll be able to share more than that, some day. 

He realises he’s not the only one in recovery. 

-

The debriefing is pretty quick – after all, their mission yesterday wasn’t that long. Deputy Commander Hill is definitely warming to Natasha: Steve arrived slightly later than Natasha, who got up incredibly early that morning, for a run around the Shatterdome’s perimeter. He would have gone, too, but he had finally been getting some good sleep, for the first time in . . . Well, a very long time. He doesn’t even want to think about how long it’s been since he’s had this quality of rest. 

He’d caught them having a laugh and a joke – perhaps at his expense, but he doesn’t mind – at least they were getting on. 

Next, it’s down to the hangar – something Steve is dreading, slightly, recalling how they managed to get Justice Inferno covered in translucent black kaiju blood. Natasha truly is vicious, when she’s on his left – something he can’t fault her for, aside from the obvious repercussions for Thor and his fellow mechanics' clean-up crew. 

Thor has been working on the Inferno since she was built; since Steve and Bucky were first wired in, and took their first step together, achieving that revered complete synchronisation that other pilots merely dream of. He knows every bump, every bolt, every wire that went into making her – and he knows when something goes wrong. 

Steve doesn’t blame him for what happened to Bucky. The kaiju that they took on that day had developed, somehow, much sharper claws and much stronger arms than they’d ever encountered, as well as being much larger than most other kaiju. So, though Steve would have liked to blame losing Bucky on the portside panelling – which had indeed been replaced by Thor himself – he just couldn’t. 

Not that Thor hadn’t apologised, anyway. He wasn't himself for a long time, after the accident. 

“You there! Captain!” Steve hears almost immediately, as they step from the elevator, out onto the hangar floor. He looks up, and sees the huge mechanic, standing beside their jaeger.  
“Uh-oh,” Natasha says, raising one eyebrow, and looking up at Steve. He grimaces, though a smile gradually pulls at his lips. _He’s gonna be mad_. 

They make their way towards him; he jots down something on a clipboard, as they make their way over. The sight of him is one of the things Steve’s actually liked, coming back here: he always looks exactly the same. Strong, and covered in engine oil; his overalls tied around his waist, wearing a dark red vest with dashes of black stains on it. His blonde hair is tied back, and as always, his utility belt has tools hanging from it – his trusty screwdrivers, monkey wrench, and his favourite hammer. 

He looks up from his clipboard when they arrive, and he fixes Steve with a stern look.  
“Captain. Your escapades have left my men and I to deal with copious amounts of kaiju blood,” He says, his voice stormy.  
“Sorry about that . . . That was kinda my fault,” Natasha says, owning up. She looks like she’s ready to stand her ground, though her tone is apologetic: she fixes him with a steadfast look, right in the eye. 

He stares at her, looking borderline angry for a moment – then, he throws his head back, and lets out a bellow of laughter.  
“I can see! The starboard side was nearly clean, but the port? Hah!” He laughs again, taking her by the shoulder with a look of amusement. She lets out a sigh of relief, glad that he’s not actually mad at them – though Steve bets she would give the guy a run for his money, in a fair fight. And Thor used to be a pilot, and an advanced combatant – so that’s really saying something. 

“Do not worry, my Russian friend – she is good as new,” He says, indicating the jaeger. Steve looks up at her, a small smile on his face: even after everything that’s happened, it’s good to see her in perfect working order. In many ways, the craft is a part of him – many of his fondest memories took place in that cockpit, beside the person who meant the most to him in the entire world. 

. . . And, recently, next to Natasha. 

“Jane would not come within fifty feet of me last night,” Thor tells them, his laughter dying down to a chuckle. Steve looks apologetic, though he’s laughing too. Even Natasha sniggers slightly, at that.  
“Sorry about that,” Steve says, as Thor hands Natasha the clipboard.  
“Here. I need you both to sign off on the repairs – Fury also asked me to make some additions to the craft, in preparation for what is to come,” He says, grabbing a rag from a nearby tool cabinet, and wiping his face. 

“Additions?” Steve asks, as Natasha skims over the report Thor has put together for them, as is standard procedure.  
“Yes. He wishes to speak with you after we’re done here,” Thor adds.  
“But we’re with Banner next,” Steve says, frowning. Banner’s no psychiatrist – but he knows the ins and outs of drift technology like no one else does. He used to be an expert in gamma radiation, until his work brought him here – the technology used here isn’t that different, according to him. Steve doesn’t really know how it works, but he explains it by saying it’s all waves, and frequencies. Whatever he does, it seems to work – and he’s much easier to get on with (and shows up much more consistently) than Stark.  
“I understand the meeting will take place in his laboratory,” Thor explains. 

“Steve,” Natasha says, looking avidly down at the clipboard, and pointing to one line in particular. “Odinson, have you ever seen anything like this before? Ever built this kind of tech?” She asks. 

Thor shakes his head, and frowns slightly.  
“I have not. But the specifications were very informative, and easy to follow. I am not entirely sure what Fury plans to do,” He says honestly. Natasha nods – after all, he can’t possibly know Fury’s plans; the intel she’s shared with only Fury, and Steve. 

Steve’s busy reading, so he barely hears the conversation – then, he sees what Natasha was getting at. 

_Pioneer wiring system for upper limb synchronisation – note: portside controls only._

An adaptation made on just the left-hand side. Not for Steve – _not for Natasha, either_. 

Steve gulps, and signs the document, though it’s hard for him to pay attention to the rest of the report. He hands the clipboard back to Thor, who looks at him quizzically – he knows he’s probably a little paler than usual, but he doesn’t care. He really needs to speak with Director Fury.  
“Thanks, Thor,” He says, with a quick yet shaky smile.  
“It's no problem, my friend – Jane and I would like to go for a drink with you, soon – would that be agreeable to you?” He calls to Steve, who’s walking away now.  
“Sure thing, buddy!” Steve calls back, though he’s rushing to get away. 

_Adaptations to the left. Nick Fury isn’t telling me something – as usual. But this . . . This is huge._

“Steve,” Natasha says, catching up with him and striding swiftly into the elevator beside him.  
“You gonna tell me not to mouth off at Fury?” He asks, looking down at her with a defiant look on his face.  
“No. I’m gonna join you,” She says. Neither of them bring up what they read directly – not throughout the inordinately long ride down to the lab, the floor below the hangar. _One floor shouldn’t take so damn long_ , Steve thinks to himself, tapping his foot. 

As soon as the door opens, he strides out, puffing out his chest and heading straight for Nick Fury, who’s standing beside Doctor Banner – the doctor is sitting, tinkering with some piece of wire or other, which appears to be attached to something like a glove. 

“You’ve been making additions to my craft, without my say-so, sir,” He says immediately, striding up to Nick Fury, who straightens up when he sees him and Natasha enter the lab. “Doctor Banner,” Steve adds, more quietly, greeting Banner cordially. Banner smiles, and gives an awkward little wave – though there’s an air of discomfort about him today. _More so than usual_. 

“Calm down, Rogers – that’s why I wanted to talk to you,” He says, making a placating gesture, as Steve stands defensively before him. His eyes look over Steve’s shoulder at Natasha, who crosses her arms. She’s not going anywhere.  
“You’ve made progress? With the Russians?” Steve asks – he doesn’t outright say what everyone’s thinking, considering the adaptations to the jaeger.  
“Yes,” Fury confirms.  
“And you didn’t tell me til today?”  
“We only signed the deal last night, Ranger. And I’ll remind you that I don’t have to run everything I do past _you_ ,” He tells Steve sternly.  
“With all due respect, sir – uh, director-” Bruce interrupts, “This development _does_ have a significant impact on Ranger Rogers – both in the drift, and out of it,”  
“And it is _his_ jaeger. Sir,” Natasha points out. 

Fury looks between the three of them incredulously, before sighing and shaking his head. Steve nods his thanks to Bruce, and Natasha, for backing him up. 

“This doesn’t concern Ranger Romanoff,” Fury tells Steve – he realises it’s a question. _Do you want me to order her to leave?_

Steve doesn’t even think – _she let me know about Bucky, she trusted me with her intel – it’s only right that I do the same for her._  
“She can stay, sir,” Steve says. He places his hands at his belt, resting them there; they suddenly feel useless and surplus to requirements, as the director starts talking. The feeling of helplessness is pervasive, as he listens. 

“It’s been a very long, very _tiring_ process, but we’ve struck a deal,” Fury reiterates. “The Russians got their immunity – so, they’re sending over the Winter Soldier, to work with SHIELD, in a few days,”  
“A few days?” Steve asks, feeling like he’s had the air punched out of him. Natasha comes up closer behind him, standing at his shoulder; a reassuring presence, he finds. _His fellow pilot. A friend, perhaps._

“Yes – they say they need some time to _prepare_ him, whatever the hell that means. They kept referring to him as their greatest weapon – but they say they’ve been having some trouble with him lately, which is partly the reason they reached out to us in the first place. Aside from being severely outmatched by SHIELD, their ace in the hole hasn’t been much use to them lately – and Doctor Banner, here, is one of the best drift mechanics in the business. They hope he can fix him,”  
“What do you mean, trouble?” Natasha asks, frowning solemnly. 

“If I can just, chip in here-” Doctor Banner says, and all three of them look to him. “The problems in the report they sent over are with the drift – he’s . . . Well, they say he’s erratic, and he gets confused. He becomes unstable,”  
“Isn’t that what his co-pilot is for?" Steve asks, though his voice is bleak, and hollow. He knows he’s had to be stabilised before, during the drift. No one could do it for him like Bucky used to be able to.  
“They have problems getting him to synchronise with anyone,” Banner elaborates. “It’s been getting worse lately, apparently,”  
“Why not try him on the solo-pilot scheme?” Natasha asks, curious. She knows, from her time with the KGB, that they – like Tony Stark – have been working on jaegers that can be piloted by a single Ranger, without causing neural overload. 

“They’ve been rooting around in his brain so much – they’ve admitted to electroshock therapy, some kind of brainwashing – he could go way, _way_ off the reservation. He could be really dangerous on his own,” Banner explains – then looks at Steve, whose jaw is clenching. “Uh . . . Sorry,” He adds, with a grimace.  
“It’s not your fault,” Steve says quietly. Natasha can hear the anger, and the desolation, behind that tone. 

There’s a period of silence, then. Steve scrubs at his face with one hand, and takes a deep breath, fixing Fury with a hard stare.  
“So . . . You want him back on Justice Inferno?” He asks.  
“Correct – not just him, either,” Fury says, looking pointedly back at Steve.  
“. . . I don’t know if I can be his co-pilot again, sir,” Steve says, honestly.  
“You don’t get a choice, I’m afraid, Rogers,” Fury says. “Or do you not remember the fact that you and Ranger Barnes had the highest synchronisation readings ever recorded in the history of drift technology?” Fury asks.  
“I remember, sir, but with respect, that was five years ago – and before whatever they’ve done to him – what if he – what if he can’t even remember me, Fury?” Steve asks, doubt creeping into his voice.  
“Nick – he’s right, he’s not the same Ranger he was five years ago – or he wouldn’t have all these problems that brought the Russians to us in the first place,” Natasha points out. 

“Look around you, Rangers – people are dying every day we don’t get pilots out there quickly enough, to fight off kaiju. And – let’s face it – Rogers and Barnes were the best team we’ve ever seen,”  
“ _Were_ – and me and Natasha are pretty good, sir – why can’t we just leave Bucky alone? Why can’t we just – why can’t we just let him be free?” Steve asks.  
“Stark thinks he wants Natasha for his solo pilot project – but that’s aside from the point, Ranger. Like it or not, the Winter Soldier is a highly valuable asset – he’s going to help us win the war on the kaiju, and he’s going to do it with you as his co-pilot,” Fury insists. 

Steve is taken aback by how desperate Fury sounds: he’s never heard him speak like this before. There’s always been at least an _illusion_ of choice – whether he wanted to come back here or not, whether he wanted to enter the drift with Natasha or not – but this is him being straight-up _commanded_ to get back into the cockpit of Justice Inferno with Bucky – or, what’s left of him – on his left, once more. 

“. . . Is it possible, Bruce?” He asks, quietly, trusting the scientist to answer him honestly.  
“I’ll have to do some tests on him,” Bruce says, not committing to an answer yet, as he considers the question more carefully. “I can put the wiring in the jaeger-” He gestures to the glove he’s working on, which is completely novel and different to anything Steve’s ever seen in his career as a pilot, “-I can wire in his metal arm, like the Russians do . . . I mean, theoretically, he’s the same guy, so his brainwaves are the same – but after what they’ve done . . .” He puffs out his cheeks, and folds his arms, looking at a point on the ground. He looks distracted, and lost in thought, as he says, “. . . We’ll just have to wait and see,”  
“That’s good enough for me. Now, get to training, Rangers – Fitzsimmons are predicting another kaiju attack tomorrow, at precisely 09:00,” Fury tells them. 

Steve nods, looking down at the floor, and breathing as deeply as he can manage. It’s his greatest want, and his greatest fear, simultaneously – piloting with Bucky, again. But yet again, he finds himself asking – _would it really be piloting with Bucky? Or would it be piloting with someone completely different – a stranger?_

Natasha takes him gently by the arm, and leads him away, and back to the elevator. Steve barely has any time to contemplate how different it will be, with Bucky wired into the machine to such a great extent. 

He doesn’t realise how much more of his old friend’s mind and thoughts he’ll get to see – if the man he’ll be piloting with is, indeed, his old friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments, they make my heart grow like two times larger every time I read them (which is a lot, for motivational and confidence purposes) :)
> 
> I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!! I've got lots more written, so hopefully the next update will be soon. 
> 
> Side note: I would thoroughly recommend that if possible, if you love the Winter Soldier story, you should read the comics!! They offer extra details that put things into perspective, and give you more of Bucky's point of view and particulars about his character that serve to make everything more poignant (and heartbreaking). If you want comic recs, I'd be happy to offer my opinions about comics featuring Bucky on tumblr (my url is comraderogers). Cheers!!

The day the Winter Soldier arrives at the Shatterdome, the atmosphere is palpable. Everyone is aware of what’s going on, despite the fact that there’s been no official communication of it. Whispers and rumours are everywhere – _I heard Ranger Barnes is coming back – Ranger Barnes – he’s coming home, he’s alive – I heard he’d a psychopath – I heard he’s Russian –_

Steve watches, from the control deck, as the Russian jet lands in the hangar. Natasha, at his side, is almost as tense as he is: Steve wonders for a second what they did to her, to make her so afraid of them. But when he considers what everyone says about the KGB, around here – the torture, the brainwashing, and the gulags – he understands her fear a little bit more. Even if the stories he’s heard aren’t true, he knows that for one man – the man he’s been missing like a limb for what feels like an eternity – they’re a reality. 

Several officials step out of the jet, first – they shake hands with Nick Fury, who’s there to greet them. Then several men dressed all in black step out – Russian muscle, KGB agents – but Steve can’t see anyone who looks like Bucky. 

When he does see him, it breaks his heart that he doesn’t really recognise him, from this high up: the only thing that lets him know that _yes, it’s Bucky, that’s Bucky down there_ , is the shining silver metal arm at his side that Natasha warned him about. 

From a distance, all he can really make out is Bucky’s arm; he can see that his hair has grown to a length that Steve’s never seen it before. Even from far away, though, the thing that sticks out to Steve is the big, bright red star emblazoned on the side of Bucky’s left upper arm. 

_A red star, for Russia. They’re letting everyone know who he belongs to. They’ve branded him, like property – they think they own him._

He doesn’t believe a person can be owned, though. 

He makes for the elevator immediately: he knows they’re taking him to the labs for tests on his brain function, soon; he also knows he’s been told to stay away. But now he’s seen Bucky: even from far away, he’s seen him, and now the possibility of seeing him up close – _touching him, smelling him, speaking to him_ – is too tantalising. 

Natasha doesn’t even try and stop him, as he takes the elevator down to Bruce’s lab; they ride along together, and he’s even more impatient than he was two days prior, as he steps out onto the lab floor.  
“Steve!” Bruce says, looking perturbed – Bucky hasn’t arrived, yet, but he’ll be there in minutes, he knows. “You can’t be here,”  
“I’m not leaving,” Steve insists. _I’m not leaving him again._  
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you _cannot_ be here! He needs to be reintroduced back to you in a secure environment,” Bruce says.  
“And this isn’t secure?” Steve asks, indicating the lab.  
“He means without the Russians here, Steve,” Natasha interprets. Bruce nods, with a grimace.  
“. . . Oh,” Steve says, understanding his point.  
“ . . . There’s no time. But – well, you can stay, if you stay in the observation room,” Bruce offers, and points to the two-way mirror on the far side of the lab. “And do _not_ come out. I don’t wanna get fired,” Bruce tells him. Steve nods his thanks, and quickly makes his way to the small room. It’s packed with random pieces of technology and rejected gadgets; projects half-finished, by both Stark and Banner, with bits of wiring and circuitry sticking out at every angle. 

As the door to the small, disused observation room shuts, the doors of the elevator they hadn’t used open up, revealing half a dozen men. Nick Fury’s there, as well as an old Russian scientist who carries with him a big metal case, plus two Russian officials, a KGB agent, and of course, _Bucky._

Their voices come through the microphones in the lab, being broadcast to Natasha and Steve.  
“I trust the Winter Soldier will not be harmed by your procedures?” One of the Russian officials is asking Bruce. It’s clear he’s not really asking, but telling, though.  
“No, sir,” Bruce says, though the look on his face and his tone of voice clearly state it’s not _SHIELD’s_ procedures he thinks will damage Bucky. He goes up in Steve’s estimation even further, after that. “It’s just a routine scan. I need to get a good read on his brainwaves so I can be sure that he’s able to share his thoughts in the-”  
“Yes, Comrade Karpov and I are well aware of the process,” The other official says, sounding bored. Bruce shuts his mouth, but looks incredibly annoyed, and frustrated. 

Bucky stands incredibly still, his hands set by his sides: the metal one perfectly mirrors the flesh one. Steve can’t stop staring at him: up close, he looks dishevelled; he’s unshaven, and his hair is unruly. He’s almost unrecognisable – even his eyes don’t have that tell-tale spark of amusement that was so characteristic of Bucky; kindness, disguised by a thin veil of cynicism. 

No . . . They look hollow, and calculating. He scans the room for threats – he doesn’t look around simply because he is curious. Steve bites his lip. 

They watch as Bruce approaches a chair, and addresses Bucky directly, saying,  
“If you wanna sit down,” 

Bucky just stares at him: his eyes narrow slightly, though the rest of his face remains blank; an impassive expression, though it comes across cold, and hard. Bruce gulps, and looks to Bucky’s handlers for help. 

It’s then that Steve realises Bruce used to know Bucky, too – somewhere along the line, in his grief and angst, he’s forgotten that he’s not the only one who lost Bucky, that day. And now for him to stare so threateningly at Bruce . . . It’s _unbearable_ , for all of them. 

“Take a seat, Winter Soldier,” The official identified as Karpov says. Bucky does so immediately. Bruce takes up a piece of headgear he’d prepared earlier – standard equipment, for detecting and quantifying the brainwaves of pilots – but he pauses before putting it on Bucky, who’s watching him very closely with a borderline aggressive expression.  
“Uh . . . Can I . . .?” He asks, addressing Bucky again. But it’s Karpov, again, who replies:  
“Winter Soldier,” He addresses Bucky, before issuing some sort of command in Russian that Steve doesn't quite catch. 

Whatever it is, it causes Bucky’s face to grow blank, and disinterested, as if he's not really in the room at that moment. He doesn’t even look Bruce in the eye anymore; apparently, he's no longer a target. Steve doesn't find much solace in that. 

“. . . Right,” Bruce says nervously, and puts the headgear onto Bucky. He sits completely still, as Bruce consults his computer, switching the device on. The readout on the screen shows his old and new brainwaves: from this angle, Steve can see that, compared to his old brainwaves, the ones the device is receiving now are much more muted; much less varied. They’re more consistent, conforming to a certain pattern. 

_It’s mind control._

“I’m going to ask you some questions – do you mind answering them?” Bruce asks Bucky – but, by now, he knows to look up at his handlers after he asks. 

“Winter Soldier, answer his questions. In English,” Karpov says. Bucky nods once. Steve feels like he’s going to throw up.  
“What is your name?” Bruce asks.  
“Winter Soldier,” He says, not missing a beat. Steve clenches his fists.  
“What day is today?”  
“Monday,” 

It strikes Steve that Bucky doesn’t have a Russian accent, like his colleagues do – granted, neither does Natasha, but he thinks she might be putting it on, whereas Bucky would have no reason to pretend. _That’s got to be a good thing, right?_

“What’s your earliest memory?” Bruce asks, not looking up from the display. The Russian officials shift uncomfortably, and frown as they look at one another, but don’t say anything.  
“I lost my arm. I was given a new one,” Bucky says without preamble. Steve swallows thickly – just the blank expression on Bucky’s face is enough to make him want to scream – because Bucky can’t. He’s got this thousand-yard stare; unlike before, when he was outwardly hostile, now he looks . . . Forlorn. He remembers Natasha saying Bucky looked lost, before – he sees it, now. He could never have imagined this. 

It’s awful to witness. 

“. . . How did you lose your arm?” Bruce asks tentatively, looking with concern at the readout. It appears that the last question caused several unusual spikes in brain activity, that weren’t necessarily shown on Bucky’s face.  
“I – I lost it in . . .” Bucky pauses, for the first time. “In the sea,” He says, though his voice is far away. Bruce is looking quickly between Bucky’s face and the monitor – there’s some strange activity taking place on his computer screen that he wasn’t banking on. Steve is horrified that, despite Bucky using the metal arm as seamlessly as he does, he doesn’t even _question_ why it’s there, in the first place. Neither does he question why he’s there – why the Russians seem to own him, why he’s a pilot, what’s happening to him. 

Steve feels his arm cramp, the muscles within it making their phantom pain known, as he remembers the kaiju that stole his friend away from him. The horror of the memory is lost in Bucky's plain words. 

“Doctor, I think we should stop now-” The older Russian scientist suggests.  
“No, this is important,” Banner snaps at him – he doesn’t often get angry, but when he does, he’s not pleasant with it. Steve is glad, in a way, that Bucky’s treatment is enough to bring out his darker side. He wouldn’t trust anyone who could watch this display, and not be unsettled, at least. Natasha, beside him, is completely and utterly still; her hand covers her face, in a show of discomfort and increasing horror. 

“I really must insist-” The Russian says.  
“No, you really mustn’t-” Bruce retorts.  
“But-”  
“It was a kaiju,” Bucky says in a small voice – and it’s so quiet, so much like a _child_ , that Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s so unlike Bucky that it’s terrifying. Seeing that vulnerable voice come from that face, and from a man with a body as deadly as Bucky’s is jarring, and heartbreaking, all at once. 

“And who was your co-pilot, Barnes?” Bruce asks, no longer looking at the readout, but making eye contact with Bucky, whose eyes are wide, and confused, now. Bruce is imploring him to remember – Steve wishes it was him, in there, helping his old friend – he’s so close to just bursting out, and trying himself to get Bucky back. 

“I – I-” Bucky says, opening and shutting his mouth a few times.  
“Enough!” The unnamed Russian official says, making a grab for the headgear, and yanking it off – he’s met with a flash of movement, as Bucky strikes out aggressively with his left arm, hitting the man in the stomach, and sending him flying across the lab with a crash. The KGB agent has his gun cocked and aimed straight at Bucky’s temple in a second amidst the confusion, ready to fire at any moment. 

But Bucky doesn’t look so aggressive, anymore – his eyes are tracking things no one else can see, and he’s breathing heavily, his fists slowly unclenching. He looks shell-shocked and broken.  
“We need to wipe him,” Karpov tells the Russian scientist, who nods, and opens up the metal case he’s brought with him.  
“Excuse me?” Nick Fury asks, frowning and stepping into the fray, finally. Steve always knew Nick has to make the hard choices, and tries to stay out of these things – but it’s good to see he’s willing to intervene, after all. Because the equipment the scientist is setting up next to a nearby gurney looks an awful lot like the apparatus needed for electroshock therapy. 

“When he gets like this, we find it’s best to give him a clean wipe. It stops him from being so erratic,” The scientist explains. “Winter Soldier,” He beckons Bucky over to the gurney, as the unnamed official recovers from his blow. Looking broken and defeated, Bucky stands up, and walks robotically to the gurney, before climbing on. 

Steve can’t believe what he’s witnessing – absolutely, categorically cannot believe it. 

“You’re making a huge mistake,” Bruce says, getting up and making to go to the scientist – but the KGB agent blocks his way, looking down his nose critically at Bruce. Bruce stares him down, as he says: “We need those memories to make the drift work, with Ranger Rogers – you’re the ones who said you wanted us to help, and we can’t do that without piecing those memories together again!”  
“New memories can be formed – it’s not necessary that he remember their previous time together,” The Karpov says, with a shrug that’s so casual it makes Steve feel sick. _They’re playing with Bucky’s wellbeing – with his life. They’re talking about him, deciding what they’re going to do to him, right in front of him – and he can’t do anything about it._  
“With respect, sir, you don’t know what you’re talking about – you can’t just go in there and scoop the old memories out, or they won’t achieve full synchronisation!” Bruce says, his voice growing urgent, as the scientist secures Bucky with restraints. He just lies there and does nothing. He’s been trained to do nothing – he doesn’t know how to resist, anymore. 

That’s when Steve snaps. Natasha tries half-heartedly to grab his arm, and stop him – but it’s no use. He’s out there and by Bruce’s side in a second.  
“Rogers-!” Fury reprimands, but Steve ignores him.  
“Let him go!” He demands, toe-to-toe with the KGB agent. Karpov looks at him, and smirks.  
“So this is the famous Captain America?” He says, looking Steve up and down. “A man who cannot even control himself, let alone a jaeger,”  
“I definitely won’t be controlling a jaeger, if you go ahead and hurt my co-pilot – because if you do it, I’ll refuse to help you,” Steve asserts, standing tall. Natasha isn’t at his back – she’s remaining unseen, and he doesn’t blame her. “You need me . . . And I need you to leave him alone, and let him remember whatever he can,” Steve finishes, his fists clenched at his side. He can’t see Bucky, at this angle, but he can’t hear him moving at all. 

Karpov looks to his colleagues; his fellow official reluctantly nods, and speaks:  
“Rodchenko, cancel the wipe. We have much to do today, before we depart for St. Petersburg. I do not wish to leave the asset in the hands of SHIELD if I’m not sure they can handle him correctly,” Though he sneers at Steve as he speaks. Steve stares him and Karpov down, thinking he hasn’t disliked anyone to this degree before, in his life – he’d even go as far as calling it _hatred_. 

They head for the elevator; the scientist does as he’s told, packing his equipment back away in his metal case, with a wary look at Steve – before anyone can stop him, Steve’s rushing to Bucky’s side. He tries not to be too distracted by the fact Bucky is eyeing him with suspicion and distrust, as he lays his hands on the restraints – Bucky flinches away, but he can’t get very far. 

Steve unfastens the restraints, and throws them with abandon at the scientist who put them there in the first place. Bucky sits up, and climbs off the gurney, staring warily at Steve the whole time. He stares only a second longer – Steve looks into his eyes, and for the briefest of moments, sees something like _awe_ , or even _recognition_ , there – he can’t help what slips out at the sight:  
“Bucky?” He asks, reaching out to touch Bucky’s arm. 

But Bucky leans away from his touch, taking a defensive step back, like he’s afraid he’s going to be assaulted; like he doesn’t trust Steve. Steve’s heart all but breaks, when Bucky’s response comes, along with a look of confusion and suspicion:  
“Who the hell is Bucky?” 

And with that, Bucky turns away, following his handlers, the KGB agent and the scientist to the lift. Nick Fury follows them, giving Steve a chastising look as he walks past. Then they’re gone: the doors shut, and Steve’s standing there, struggling to breathe. 

He feels the fight seep out of him, like it’s a physical thing that he’s lost: it drains from his head and his heart, out through his toes, and into the ether. He feels as broken as Bucky looked – desolate, and hopeless, at least for those few moments back there. 

He feels Bruce behind him, though he doesn’t see him. He’s there, though – as is Natasha, who comes creeping out into the lab, now they’re all gone.  
No one says a word. There’s complete silence, and stillness, as the discarded headgear and gurney stare back at Steve; the only trace of where Bucky’s been. He’d kill for a recent memory of Bucky’s hand holding his hand, at that moment – he’d do anything for the recognition that he’d wanted in return, when he’d said Bucky’s name. 

But he has to deal with what he got instead: Bucky doesn’t know him, doesn’t recognise him, and won’t let him touch him. He’d thought, originally, when Bruce was questioning him, that maybe he was capable of remembering something . . . But he’d looked right at Steve, and he hadn’t recognised him. 

Steve thinks to himself, in the silence and stillness, that he’s lost Bucky forever. 

_Maybe they lied. Maybe Bucky did die, after all._

-

“What you did, earlier . . . It was very brave,”  
Steve looks up from his sketchbook – he’s sitting at the desk in his and Natasha's room, and drawing yet again. Natasha’s lying on the bottom bunk, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what he’s drawing, even if she can’t see it. He frowns at her. 

“Standing up to them like that,” She clarifies, looking down. She laces her hands together behind her head, and stares at her toes. Steve had thought, before she’d moved in, that it might be awkward to bunk with a female pilot – but they’re both professionals, and they can deal with it. It’s true, what they say: it does bring them closer together. 

“I don’t think you’re a coward, for staying behind, Natasha,” He says, thinking he sees through her words. “If they’d done to me what they’ve done to you-”  
“-you would have done exactly the same, Steve,” She interrupts. “It’s what you’re like. I’ve seen you getting beaten up in the drift enough times to realise you never back down,” 

It goes unsaid that Bucky’s always in those memories, rushing in and to his rescue, with a smile and a reminder that _I’m with you til the end of the line, pal._

He looks down at his most recent sketch: it’s Bucky, of course. But there’s a hardness in the eyes of the drawing that’s missing from all Steve’s previous drawings – what he saw today retroactively interfered with his memories of the old Bucky. He doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

“I . . . I don’t like bullies,” He says, sighing. “And-”

He’s suddenly caught offguard by a memory – it’s Bucky’s dad, giving his son a pep-talk before he sets off for the SHIELD jaeger corps. Bucky’s dad was a soldier – he died, a two or three years back – but Steve will never forget the words he’d said to his son that day, even if at the time he and Steve had been young, and carefree, and perhaps hadn’t paid as much attention as they should’ve. 

_A good soldier has no use for doubt. No room for ego. Always remember, Bucky — more than God, more than country — it’s the soldier next to him that he fights for._

“. . . I couldn’t let them hurt him again,” Steve finishes, after a lengthy pause. Natasha nods, finally looking up at him.  
There’s a noise, outside: footsteps, and voices – Russian voices. Steve looks at Natasha; their faces reflect the alertness they both feel. Steve steps up to the door, and opens it a crack, to look through. 

_Bucky_. He’s talking to that guy Karpov, in Russian – it’s just the two of them. He’s got a bag, and he’s making for the room opposite to Steve and Natasha’s. _They’re moving him in_. Steve moves back from the door slightly, being sure not to be seen. 

The conversation is very one sided; their voices are hushed, and it’s mainly Karpov speaking, anyway. Bucky’s just saying _yes, sir_ or something like it, in Russian – all pilots have basic training in Russian, Spanish, German and French, but it’s been a long time since Steve’s had to use those skills. 

They step into the room opposite, and Bucky sets down his bag on the floor. He doesn’t look around, or move to get settled in – he looks intent on Karpov, as he speaks. Steve’s reminded of an attentive student – a child, looking up to their parent, despite the fact that everything about Bucky now screams _threat_ , according to Steve’s extensive combat training. 

The metal arm. The considerable muscle mass. The dark eyes, the calculating facial expressions, the tense posture like a tightly-coiled spring . . . _Danger_. It’s clear as day, and it sets Steve’s teeth on edge, it’s just so _wrong_. 

Karpov says something, and Bucky salutes, standing up straight, while Karpov leaves the room. He remains in position until Karpov’s footsteps can no longer be heard. Steve holds his breath, waiting for what his next move will be. 

Slowly, Bucky lowers his arm, and takes a cursory look around the room: corner to corner, wall to wall. He looks up at the top bunk; touches the metal frame . . . And then settles on the bottom bunk. _Maybe he remembers_ , Steve’s wishful thinking chimes in, though he knows it's stupid. 

He sits down on the bottom bunk, his hands on his knees; he’s still tense, like he's ready to pounce at any time. He stares at the wall in front of him – that same thousand-yard stare as Steve saw earlier, from what he can recall. 

Suddenly, his head snaps to the side, and he’s making direct eye contact with Steve through the gap in the door. He stands up abruptly, and strides quickly to his own open door; Steve recoils slightly, suddenly afraid that Bucky’s going to try and hurt him. 

But he stops at the threshold: his right hand holds onto the doorframe, and his left takes ahold of the door handle; there’s an audible crunch, as it crumples slightly under his grip. Steve winces; he opens his own door slightly, thinking that maybe Bucky just wants to talk to him. 

But the way Bucky looks at him says it all: first confusion, followed by a frown; then, a viciously dark gaze, as he lets it be known without words that he wishes to be left alone. He clearly doesn’t think much of Steve – he doesn’t know if it’s because of the intervention he made earlier, or something the Russians have told Bucky about him, but that look doesn’t sit well with Steve. Aside from the fact it’s an expression he’s never had turned on him by his friend before, it shows that Bucky is going to be hard to work with – even trying his best, Steve knows he might never get through to Bucky. 

Not with the Winter Soldier standing in the way. 

Bucky shuts his door with a great slam, and Steve’s left out in the corridor; he feels like he’s been left out in the cold, with winter winds seeping through his clothes, through his skin, and wrapping around his bones. The coldness of such a rejection is pervasive, spreading a sense of hopelessness that he knows he can’t afford, if he’s going to get through this in one piece. _You can't give up now. Not when Bucky needs you._

“Steve,” Natasha calls to him gently. _Come back inside_. 

Sadly, he shuts the door, and climbs onto the top bunk. He doesn’t say another word all night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I'm gonna emphasise that I don't hate Russians. I feel like I'm really throwing them under the bus in this story. It's not my intention!! 
> 
> Thanks for all the support, I'm crossing my fingers that you all like what I'm doing with this fic!!

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Natasha asks, as they make their way to the combat training room. Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out as a grunt.  
“No,” He says, grimacing at the floor. “But I’m gonna do it anyway,” 

Fury hasn’t given Steve much choice: he told him yesterday that he has to pilot with Bucky, or he’ll be sent back to Russia, and the whole collaboration will have been for nothing; the world could potentially be doomed – so in Steve’s mind, there's no choice at all. What he saw yesterday cemented that, in his mind. He can't let Bucky be sent back there. 

He slept badly last night: he lay awake, thinking he could see faces in the dark; thinking he could hear noises from the room across the hall, even in the deathly silence. He knows there was nothing – _as if the Winter Soldier would be losing any sleep, or tossing and turning, or sobbing_ – but it doesn’t stop him from thinking he heard all of those things. He used to have such a good instinct for Bucky’s behaviour - but now, well . . . 

He rose early, and went for a long run around the perimeter; it’s been a long winter, but Steve thinks spring might come soon. That didn’t stop the cold from biting at his face and arms as he ran, though. The shower warmed him through, but that coldness stayed put, right in the centre of him. 

“I’ll be watching,” Natasha lets him know.  
“Yeah. So will half the Shatterdome,” He says wistfully, as they reach the doors. He knows that news of Bucky’s arrival, and the fact they’re undergoing compatibility combat training today, has spread like wildfire around the facility – and he doesn’t doubt that the observation gallery will be packed with people wanting to watch. _It’s supposed to be a private session – Fury said it would be, anyway. We both knew he was lying, though._

She bites her lip, and pauses, about to turn off to go to the gallery, and observe her recent co-pilot become officially reacquainted with his old co-pilot – or what's left of him.  
“Be careful,” She says, and sounds sincere. He nods once in thanks, and takes a deep breath, before stepping through the door. 

The room is a wide-open space: a giant square, with high ceilings, an observation room above, and soft flooring. The fact the floor isn’t particularly hard doesn’t make it much easier to recover when you’re thrown onto your back, though. 

On one side of the room is a rack of staffs, but no other weapons; a punch bag, with a trashcan next to it full of old hand-wrappings. But Steve isn’t focussing on any of that stuff, which he’s seen many times over: he’s focussing on Bucky, who’s taken a staff already, and is handling it with a thoughtful expression; he doesn’t look up, when Steve enters, at first. 

Fury explained to him yesterday that this was to check their synchronisation, before they entered the drift: after all, Bucky’s been so altered since their last drift that jumping into Justice Inferno with him unprepared could be dangerous. 

But Steve knows Fury has an ulterior motive, as always – he wants to see Bucky fight. He saw him fight before the accident; he’s seen them spar together, in friendly competition, though they never injured each other. The idea was to be perfectly _synchronised_ , after all – not to beat the crap out of each other.  
But Fury wants to know what standards the Russians hold their agents to. Steve doesn’t like it, but yet again, he’s not in a position where he can easily refuse. 

He can see the director, now – he’s standing at the very front of the observation room, looking down at Steve. He nods once. Steve scowls up at him, still not at all comfortable with this situation. 

He looks back at Bucky – the analytical expression of concentration on his face reminds Steve of when he used to focus on his drawings; when he used to read, in class; when he used to write his essays, with a furrowed brow and a look of careful consideration. 

Steve gets a really good look, now, at the state of his friend: he watches the metal hand grasp onto the staff, and observes the many silver joints and panels that make up the prosthesis Bucky now requires. He feels a rush of an emotion he hasn’t felt in a little while – _guilt_. He knows it’s survivor’s guilt; he couldn’t have done anything to prevent what happened, and yet he still feels a crushing weight of guilt over the fact that this happened to Bucky, while he walked away able-bodied and free; his mind his own, to grieve, and move on, as he pleased. Not that he ever truly learned to move on properly. 

Right on cue, his left arm begins to cramp – it feels as if the muscles are curling in on themselves; tightening, and bracing against a phantom pain, which has been brought to the forefront of his mind by seeing Bucky like this. 

Equally interesting, to Steve, is Bucky’s hair: he never wore it that long before – not once in his life. It was always a little unruly, but it was never shoulder-length before. Steve thinks it would be more practical for him to get it cut, or at least tie it back – but he’s not about to deny Bucky the one piece of choice he has left in his life; the one piece of control he has over his body. 

Additionally, several days’ worth of facial hair obscures the bottom half of his face: dark and bristly, the stubble is just a fraction longer than Bucky used to wear it. He always liked a little bit of stubble, while Steve liked a clean shave – _not on Bucky, though. It didn’t look right on Bucky . . . But neither does this_ , he thinks, as he savours the precious moments he has to watch Bucky without being watched back. 

But then Bucky looks up. His hard gaze pins Steve, who slows up, coming to a stop a few feet from the exit he wants to make swift use of right about now . . . But he won’t. He needs to face this. It’s the right thing to do, and that’s what matters. _You can do this. If not for yourself, do it for Bucky. He’s trapped somewhere inside that machine – that weapon . . . Maybe you can find him. Maybe you can free him, if he can’t free himself._

“Bucky,” He says. Bucky frowns, but doesn’t respond – so, Steve continues. “I don’t want to fight you – this is just training, right?” Steve says. 

Bucky straightens, his face growing blank; he doesn’t reply. He watches Steve take a deep breath, and head for the rack of staffs. He picks one up, aware he’s being watched the whole time, and makes his way to stand a few feet away from Bucky. 

“Remember to take it easy, fellas – if possible, we want you in that jaeger by this afternoon for your first test drift,” Director Fury says over the intercom system, from the observation room – which, as Steve predicted, is packed. He can make Natasha’s face out, though – and Sam’s. Barton’s probably not far away: he and Sam are on call, today, and ready to deal with any imminent attacks, should the sirens go off.  
“Yes, sir,” Steve says, though there’s an edge of resentment towards Fury in his voice. _Take it easy_ – he doesn’t think the guy appreciates how much this is tearing him apart inside. 

Bucky says nothing. 

“Remember – work together,” Fury says, though Steve doesn’t need reminding. The task is enormous and daunting, looming over him – _they’re all up there, waiting for me to fail._

“When you’re ready,” Fury says, turning off the intercom and sitting back. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” Steve reiterates, maintaining eye contact with Bucky, as he moves into a combat stance: he plants his feet, holding his staff in one hand, with his other braced at his side for balance. 

Bucky flips his staff in one hand, twirling it this way and that without looking; he keeps his eyes on his opponent, at all times, as he places one foot forward, the other back, and faces side-on. _Less of a target_. 

Bucky makes the first move. He swings left with his staff, and Steve blocks it easily; he knocks Steve’s staff away, going in for a forward jab, which Steve side-steps. 

Steve swears he sees Bucky smirk, as he says, “You’re right. You really don’t want to fight, do you?” 

The mocking tone of voice, the aggressive edge – it lets Steve know that this _definitely_ isn’t Bucky. In fact, he realises with a sinking feeling, it sounds a lot like Karpov. 

This is the Winter Soldier, in combat mode . . . He knows he should probably treat the Winter Soldier differently to how he treats Bucky, but he won’t refuse this man the kindness he’d extend to his old friend. _I’ll never get him back if I don’t treat him like a friend._

“You never were a good listener, Buck,” He says, ducking under a swipe from Bucky’s staff. “I already said it twice,” He rolls to one side – the feeling of being back in a combatant frame of mind is better than he’d like to admit; he feels free, his movements flowing - like he’s meant for this. 

But the Winter Soldier is meant for it more: he was _created_ for it. 

“Maybe you should just shut up then,” The Winter Soldier snaps back, bringing the staff down hard at Steve’s head, leaving him with no option but to dodge at the last moment; he swings his staff around as he falls, and hits Bucky in the legs. They both fall on their assess simultaneously. 

“Well, at least we’re synchronised,” Steve says, a little breathless, as he picks himself up. 

Bucky looks back at him like he’d gladly murder Steve – it’s not a look Steve’s unfamiliar with, after embarrassing Bucky in front of girls and telling him awful jokes . . . But he’s never seen it like this before, with no trace of irony or humour behind it. It’s just simple, pure hatred, for besting him. 

“They said you were better,” Bucky says, picking himself up, and getting a better grasp on his staff, as Steve does the same.  
“I knocked you on your ass, didn’t I?” Steve says. He feels a little like he’s playing with fire – or, well, with _ice_. He knows it’s probably not best to tease the Winter Soldier, but in his heart, he knows that deep down it’s Bucky – and he’d tease Bucky like this normally. So he continues. 

The Winter Soldier makes his move so quickly that Steve almost can’t keep up: he’s a flurry of movement, taking a run-up and launching himself into the air; he flies into Steve, planting a foot on his chest, and knocking the air out of him, as he stumbles backwards; he trips over, landing on his back, the air leaving his lungs in one great forced exhale. 

But Bucky doesn’t let up: he smashes his staff down, towards Steve’s face – but Steve rolls out of the way, taking evasive action. The force of the blow to the floor causes Bucky’s staff to break in two, splintering. Steve’s eyes widen, as the splinters fly; Bucky pants, his face twisted into a vicious snarl.

Steve picks himself up, getting back into a fighting stance, and waiting for Bucky to retrieve a new staff - but he doesn’t. He just grabs the two pieces, taking them up, and getting back into his own fighting stance. He twirls them in his hands, manipulating them with a great range of movement; his left hand clicks and whirs, the panels shifting, as he displays skill and mastery that are obviously second nature to him. 

_Oh boy._

“Together, Rangers – work together,” Fury’s voice comes over the intercom, concerned and correcting.  
“I gotta say, Buck – you’re not much of a team player anymore,” Steve says, though the humour in the statement is lost in the tension of the situation.  
“I think you’ve got me confused with someone-” Bucky lunges at him, bringing both halves of the staff down at him, “-who gives a damn what you think!” 

Steve braces himself, holding his staff up to block the attack – but Bucky’s already recovered, and is swiping left, right and centre at him, almost too quickly for Steve to defend. Almost. 

He bats each attack away, though they’re coming faster every second – he can see in Bucky’s eyes that he’s getting frustrated and angry that he can’t hit him; can’t beat him. He doesn’t know that it’s because despite five years of brainwashing and torture and training, his instinctive fighting style remains the same – and it’s a style Steve knows as well as his own. Probably better. 

“Just like when we used to spar,” Steve says, dodging hits like he can predict them – which, with his experience, he can.  
“We’ve – never – sparred!” Bucky denies hotly, between attacks. Steve flips out of the way of one of the blows – there’s an audible gasp from above, as one of Bucky’s sticks nearly hits him in the face. 

“Sure we have – my bedroom floor – basic training – hell, even in this room!” Steve points out, as they circle each other; Steve as if he’s taking a stroll, Bucky as if he’s a predator closing in on his prey.  
“This is pathetic,” Bucky sneers, not believing any of it for a second – or, well, not _appearing_ to. But inside is a whole other matter . . . He’d experienced a strange sense of deja-vu upon entering this room. He hadn’t been sure why – and he’s still not sure. All he knows is that he’s been told that Ranger Rogers will try and feed him lies; try and turn him against the Motherland. And he can’t let that happen. 

He knows what will happen to him if he becomes broken beyond repair. 

“No,” Steve shakes his head, any trace of lightness in his voice gone; it’s almost a whisper, solemn and sincere. “You know me,” He says. 

Then he drops his staff. 

Bucky watches warily, as he kicks it away, and to one side. Steve watches him back, carefully; Bucky’s face drops, and goes blank. His eyes are confused, and completely surprised, at the peaceful gesture.  
 _I won’t fight you. You know me._

But then the Winter Soldier remembers his coaching. _He will try and lure you in. He will tell you lies. He will hurt you, Winter Soldier. Do not trust him. Only trust me._

“No I don’t!” Bucky yells suddenly, dropping the broken pieces of staff, and running at Steve like he means business; Steve wasn’t expecting his act of pacifism to inspire such _anger_ , but he’s ready, and on the defensive. 

Bucky throws a punch with his left arm, which Steve dodges; this sends him into the path of Bucky’s right arm, which hits him with an uppercut that has him stumbling backwards, towards the rack of staffs, and the punching bag. The Winter Soldier’s knee to his gut makes him lurch forward, right into the path of another uppercut, which sends him barrelling backwards, into the trashcan, which clatters to the floor. 

He doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t want to fight Bucky. 

He’s vaguely aware of Nick Fury yelling at them over the intercom – but Bucky blocks the door, jamming it shut with one of the discarded broken pieces of staff, before approaching Steve. He carries himself exactly like a soldier: they were never soldiers – Rangers aren’t part of the military – but now, he most definitely is. Steve can see that implicit in his movements. 

_They took Bucky out, and they shoved something else back in his place, in his own mind, ready for them to manipulate and control. He’s not just a machine – he’s a puppet._

Bucky kneels down, and straddles Steve’s chest, that same aggressive expression on his face.  
“Bucky-” Steve says – _a warning, a greeting, a plea_.  
“Shut up!” The Winter Soldier says, though there’s more than a hint of fear in his voice – _what is he so afraid of?_ Steve thinks. 

But Steve is unaware that it’s him – _it’s Ranger Rogers, trying to lead him astray, trying to lie to him and twist him and force his handlers to hurt him again, and we wouldn’t want that, would we, Winter Soldier?_

Bucky hefts Steve up by his shirt with his left hand, and smashes his right fist into his face. Steve takes the blow with only a grunt, but he won’t give up – he’s come too far, now, and he’s clearly getting to the Winter Soldier, somehow – 

“You know me, Bucky – I’m your friend!” He says, desperately.  
“I don’t know you,” Bucky yells, punching Steve again. The door is rattling, being rammed into by pilots and the Director alike – but it’s no use, Bucky’s a professional, and he made sure he wedged that thing shut damn tight. 

“Remember – remember being here before? Remember – the drift?” Steve asks, tasting blood, and well aware that his nose is bleeding, now.  
“I don’t remember anything!” Bucky roars – though the line between him being angry at Steve, and him growing more and more furious with himself, is becoming more blurred by the second. His eyes are wild, and all he can think to do to let out some more of that pent up tension – _what is that? Is it emotion?_ – is strike Ranger Rogers again. 

“That’s okay, buddy-” Steve says, though his voice is thick, and his vision is becoming blurred with the repeated blows to the head he’s sustaining, “It doesn’t matter,” He reassures Bucky, whose face flicks between anger, incredulity, horror, and some unidentifiable emotion Steve would like to believe is recognition, though it’s too long a shot to even consider. “’Cause I’m with you til the end of the line,” 

Bucky freezes at that. He simply doesn’t move – his chest heaves on, but his mind has drawn a complete blank. Suddenly, he doesn't see Ranger Rogers anymore: he’s got some scrawny kid – someone he simultaneously doesn’t want to know, and is afraid of forgetting – staring out at him from beneath him. He's around fifteen years old, and bleeding from the face. 

Bucky feels his own tongue wrap around those words – _til the end of the line_ – and doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

_He will lie to you. He will lead you astray. You cannot trust anyone but us, Winter Soldier._

_Does this mean I’m lying to myself, too? Are these memories real? . . . What came before the Motherland? What came before my arm was lost? What came before the sea, and the surgery?_

_. . . Where was I born? Where did I grow up? – who am I?_

He suddenly stands up, tossing Ranger Rogers down to the ground, and thinking to himself that maybe it’s too late to save him – Ranger Rogers has gotten to him in only two days. The Winter Soldier considers himself weak, that he’s allowed himself to be manipulated already – and he tells himself that’s all it is. _The Americans, lying to you, trying to turn you against us._

But . . . No matter how much he repeats that mantra to himself - as the door breaks down and lets SHIELD pilots and the Director in, and he makes a swift and stealthy getaway - he can’t get away from the fact that, back there, he experienced something he’s never seen or felt before . . . A memory, that came not from a lie told by Ranger Rogers, or from one of Comrade Karpov’s procedures, but . . . From within. 

A memory of telling some fifteen year old kid that _I’m with you til the end of the line_. He knows he should ignore it – _probably a fluke, probably just imagining it, it will go away with time and further procedures once I am back in the Motherland_ – but it stays embedded in his mind, like sharp glass in sand. 

At least, that’s what he’d compare it to, at first – but he finds that, as the seconds and minutes and hours wear on, it’s more like a seed, growing and invading like a weed. 

_Til the end of the line_. It’s almost ridiculous. Because no one – not now, not ever – would stay with him that long. No one except Karpov. 

Karpov would never lie to him, like the Americans would. 

\- 

Steve doesn’t see Bucky for the rest of the day: their test drift is moved to the next day, through necessity, due to Steve requiring medical attention. By the time he does see Bucky, though, it’s dark - and he’s sure Bucky didn’t mean to be found. 

The control deck is empty at this time of night: protocol dictates that no one should be there, aside from during emergencies, anyway. But Steve’s on his way back from the medical bay, and on his way past, and he sees someone is in there. 

He’s still not feeling one hundred percent: he was concussed after the fight, but after hours lying around and letting Dr. Simmons worry around him, he’s feeling better. All he has to show for what happened, really, is a graze on his right cheek, mottled with bruises. 

Despite not feeling at the top of his game, he’s sure he can make out a silhouette of a sitting figure, dark against the backdrop of the observation window, looking out onto the jaeger hangar. The floodlights below are bright and white, casting a ghostly light over the whole room, which is otherwise shrouded in darkness. 

He pauses, frowning, and stepping through the door – it shouldn’t be open, anyway.  
“Personnel aren’t allowed in here after-” 

He grows silent, when the figure turns around slightly. And, really, he should have known – that silhouette has changed so much in five years, but it’s not so different that he couldn't recognise it, if feeling one hundred percent. And anyone else would remember that the control deck is off limits this late, aside from for missions and emergencies. 

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly. He straightens, his stance becoming defensive, as he takes in the sight of Bucky: he’s sitting in one of the chairs that looks out onto the hangar; he has a notebook in his hands, and a pen. Steve notices that he writes with his left hand – just like always. He guesses that some things never change; he just wishes that Bucky’s memories of him could have endured in the same way. 

“You are injured,” The Winter Soldier tells him, looking back down at his notebook, and continuing writing, as he was before Steve arrived. Steve awkwardly pauses, before nodding. “You will be well enough for the drift tomorrow?” Bucky asks, though he doesn’t look up. 

Steve takes a step into the room, making his way slowly towards Bucky, until he’s right beside him.  
“You think we’re gonna enter the drift tomorrow?” He asks, frowning at Bucky, and placing his hands in his pockets – they feel useless, hanging at his sides, so he stows them away.  
“Why not?” Bucky replies nonchalantly.  
“Because you beat the crap out of me today, Buck,” He points out, an edge of frustration present in his voice. But he tries to curb it – he needs to let Bucky know, if he’s in there, that he hasn’t burnt his bridges. _I still want you back, and I’m gonna do whatever I can to help you._

The Winter Soldier’s left hand pauses writing, but he doesn’t look up.  
“It was combat training,” He says after a few seconds.  
“We were supposed to be synchronised,” Steve reminds him, “You weren’t supposed to try and hurt me,”  
“It’s what I do,” Bucky says, not missing a beat. Steve swallows thickly, unable to believe the fact that Bucky thinks hurting people is 'what he does' – nothing more, nothing less. _He really is their secret weapon . . . Or, at least, he thinks he is._

He clears his throat slightly, not wanting to get into another argument that could end up with his nose bleeding all over another set of clothes.  
“What are you writing?” He asks, trying to be civil again, though he still desperately wants to try and get through to Bucky again – considering how his efforts went earlier, though, he knows it’s not a good idea. He’s going to have to play the long game – he needs to rebuild some sort of trust, here.  
“Agent’s log. For Comrade Karpov,” He says, like Steve knows exactly what he’s talking about.  
“What’s that?” He asks, blankly. The Winter Soldier looks up from writing for a second, raising an eyebrow at Steve. Disconcertingly, his hand doesn’t stop writing – Steve can’t see what it’s writing, but he can see it moving, even when Bucky isn’t paying attention.  
“What I did today. Progress report. My assessment of you, as a co-pilot,” He says.  
“But we’ve barely been back together-” He catches himself, “. . . You’ve barely known me two days,”  
“I’m a quick study. All Russians are,” He says, looking back down. 

_But you’re not Russian_ , Steve thinks. _You’re one of us, Buck._

“What was your _assessment_ , based on today?” Steve asks, slightly bitter; his nose throbs, and he’s acutely aware of the bruising on his right cheek.. The Winter Soldier finally shuts his notebook, and looks up – he looks a little annoyed about being interrupted. But, mainly, he looks thoughtful, as he considers Steve. His gaze is searching, and analytical – his speech is methodical, as he offers his opinion.  
“Ranger Rogers is strong, and fast – almost to the standard expected of KGB agents. He is a typical American – he seems under the thumb of Director Fury, and thoroughly believes all American propaganda. On a personal level, he is unable to put his emotions aside for the cause. He has delusions that he and I used to be close – the level of distress he shows when I tell him I do not know him indicates that the relationship he believes we had was of a deep and sexual-”  
“-okay, that’s enough,” Steve holds up his hand, blushing slightly. 

The Winter Soldier cocks his head to one side, looking Steve up and down. Just for a second, he smirks in a way that’s just so similar to how Bucky used to smirk, when he’d just made fun of Steve, that it catches Steve off guard. But then he blinks, and the look is gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression. Not hostile, or friendly – just pensive. 

“. . . You are a good combatant,” Bucky adds, in a lower voice. Steve’s not sure what to say to that – it’s a compliment, but it sounds like it’s been pulled from the Winter Soldier against his will. He can’t deny that Steve gave him a good fight earlier, before things became too heated.  
“Thank you,” Steve says. The Winter Soldier inclines his head slightly, before picking up the notebook again, and starting to write. Steve decides that it's his time to leave. 

“You still shouldn’t be in here,” He calls back to Bucky, as he leaves the room.  
“SHIELD protocol does not apply to me,” Bucky calls back – and Steve thinks, for once, he hears a hint of humour in that usually so cold, flat voice. 

He looks over his shoulder as he leaves, but the Winter Soldier’s face is blank again, and he’s busy writing. So he leaves the room, and shuts the door behind him, considering how, in the forty-eight hours he’s been reunited with Bucky, he’s seen so many different personas play out – he’s seen him go from being child-like and dependent on his handlers, to being a blank-faced soldier, to being a vicious, sarcastic fighter . . . And, just now, a methodical, analytical thinker. None of them are _Bucky_ , though. 

He just hopes that, from the scraps he’s seen that remind him of the old Bucky – the fighting skills, the cynical edge, the synchronisation – he can mould a co-pilot that he can work with, for his own sake, and that of the whole world watching them . . . Though he knows it won’t really be Bucky, maybe they can be civil enough to get through this. 

As soon as he’s gone, the Winter Soldier looks up, staring at the door where Ranger Rogers used to be. He looks down at the page: the picture he’s drawn of Ranger Rogers isn’t perfect, but it catches his general impression. He wonders, again, why he drew it – and why he feels so strange, so simultaneously out of place and _home_ , when he’s around his new co-pilot. 

He bites his lip, and turns the page. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how long this fic is already. I'm pretty sure it's going to end up around 40-50k (if my plan for it goes as scheduled). I hope you're all okay with that!! 
> 
> Anyway. Thank you all SO much for all your kind words and reviews - and I'm sorry about the various formatting problems that have popped up in this fic so far. I've amended what I've been made aware of (thanks for that btw) and I'll try REALLY hard to prevent those kinds of errors in the future. I always seem to make some kind of mistake, though!! 
> 
> Thanks again, and enjoy :)

The Bucky Steve knew was always late for everything, unless Steve intervened – especially if it meant getting up early. Steve turns up five minutes earlier than necessary for their test-drift nonetheless, as usual, showing up at 7:55 on the dot. 

To his chagrin, the Winter Soldier turns up exactly on time. 

Steve watches him emerge from the elevator: through the smoke and the haze created by mechanics welding metal, testing engines and repairing jaegers, he sees the flash of his silver arm. He’s unprepared for what Bucky will look like, all dressed up for the drift. 

Yesterday, he wore all black; a black military-style jacket with the left arm removed, black trousers, and black boots. Today, his outfit is a dark mirror of Steve’s own: while Steve’s is the usual blue, with silver stars and stripes, Bucky’s outfit is different shades of black: strips across his chest, and wires hidden beneath panels, just as they are in his arm. 

Black armoured trousers and combat boots adapted for wiring into the drift complete the look, which comes off as intimidating – nothing about it more so than the red star shining on Bucky’s shoulder. 

His brow is furrowed and hard, his eyes scanning the area with a sense of grim purpose; that same tense, tightly-coiled demeanour sticks to him, his movements slow yet purposeful. 

Steve takes a deep breath, pulling himself up to his full height, and bracing himself for what will happen when Bucky sees him again. Sure, they were able to be civil last night – but he knows better than anyone that the Winter Soldier can go from civil to hostile like a cold snap. 

Bucky arrives right on time, stepping up in front of Steve; his right arm carries his black helmet, adorned with a red star on both sides; his prosthesis hangs stiffly at his side, tightly controlled. He takes a few seconds to size Steve up, before giving him a cordial nod in greeting:  
“Captain,” He says. Steve frowns – there’s no hint of irony about the statement; no tongue-in-cheek edge, no cheeky smirk. Bucky literally thinks he’s a Captain – he guesses because he’s been told that everyone calls him _Captain America_. 

He feels a little selfish when he doesn’t correct him – he just likes hearing Bucky call him that name again. When he thinks back to how he used to get annoyed at it . . . He could laugh. He never thought he’d miss that sarcastic little nickname so much. 

“. . . Good morning,” Steve replies curtly, when he can’t decide what to call Bucky. He reacted pretty badly last time he called him by his real name – but Steve does _not_ want to call him Winter Soldier. It would feel a little bit too much like the Russians had won. 

But Bucky isn’t looking at him, anymore: he’s looking up and at the jaeger Steve is standing beside. _Their_ jaeger. 

“What is the name of this craft?” He asks – his voice is far away, as he approaches one of the supporting structures, frowning at it. He appears distant, all of a sudden – Steve hesitates before answering, not wanting to interrupt any memories Bucky might be having. It's wishful thinking, though, he knows.  
“Justice Inferno,” Steve replies, bracing himself internally for Bucky’s response. 

Bucky reaches out his flesh hand: gloved, though it is, he brushes it against the metal of the craft all the same; he soothes his palm along the surface of the metal with a degree of care that gives Steve pause. 

He’s never seen the Winter Soldier like this before. 

Then Bucky steps back, looking up at the jaeger with a thoughtful expression.  
“She is very American,” He says, indicating the paint. Steve bites his lip.  
“We, uh . . . We decorated her,” Steve says. Bucky turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised slightly.  
“We do not do that,” He says, referring to himself and the other Russians. It goes over his head that what Steve really meant was that _he_ was the one to paint the jaeger with those red, white and blue flames. 

“Are you ready to enter the drift with me, Ranger Rogers?” Bucky asks. There’s a degree of challenge in his voice; perhaps he’s mocking Steve, after Steve complained about how their training session went, last night. Maybe he thinks Steve is too cowardly to even _try_ and drift with him, despite being a good combatant.  
“Of course,” Steve says, his voice determined. He knows this could possibly be the last chance he has to help Bucky remember who he was – who he _is_. 

Bucky nods, though he smirks slightly, as he climbs the stairs necessary to board the jaeger. 

He follows Bucky into the cockpit: Steve hasn’t seen the adjustments that have been made in preparation for Bucky’s arrival yet; Bucky isn’t fazed, clearly having experienced the technology before. But, to Steve, it’s completely alien: there’s a whole new set of technology and equipment, which Bucky is plugging himself into, like he’s just part of the machine. He dons his helmet, and slots his metal arm into the new device present on the port side, as Steve wires himself in on his right, putting his own helmet on. He keeps an eye on Bucky all the while: his look of concentration, his steady sense of purpose; the occasional look up at Steve, daring him to say something. Steve keeps quiet. 

The system boots up, and the familiar voice of Maria Hill chimes in over the coms:  
“Good morning Rangers. I trust the amendments to the craft are all in order?” 

Steve looks over to Bucky: he’s flexing his metal fingers – as he does so, the left arm of the jaeger moves in synchrony, flexing and moving in exactly the same way. The sight throws him, for a moment, and he stares in awe – he shouldn’t even be able to move this thing, without the drift: he's like a puppet-master, rather than a puppet, for once. 

Sure, it’s only one limb, but . . . Steve is struck with just how many amendments have been made to Bucky’s mind, and _body_ , since that fateful night five years ago. And all without his consent. 

Then, he remembers to answer the deputy commander, as Bucky isn’t forthcoming with an answer.  
“I think so, yes ma’am,” He replies. Bucky remains silent, limbering up for the drift. 

“. . . Sure. Okay,” She replies, taking a deep breath. “Are you both ready to drift?”  
“Ready to drift,” Steve repeats.  
“Yes,” Bucky says simply. He then dismissively adds, “They do not ask us if we are ready in Russia. We don’t waste time on that kind of thing,” 

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that – so he says nothing. He would like to point out that entering the drift without being fully prepared and ready for it can be psychologically damaging and cause neural overload – but it’s too late. The drift fires up, and they’re plunged into darkness. 

Steve gasps – it’s an uncanny feeling, to be back and synchronising with Bucky’s mind: simultaneously the most familiar thing in the world, and completely and _utterly_ different. He recognises the patterns the thoughts take, as they swirl in front of him – but the experience is much more intense than he remembers. Bucky doesn’t – _can’t_ hold back. 

Steve experiences the extra level of integration that comes from Bucky’s arm being wired in, as if it were his own arm: for the first time, his arm doesn’t hurt, but feels stronger. It feels steady, and steadfast, and made of uncrushable metal – he has to remind himself that that is _Bucky’s_ arm, not his. 

That’s when he realises: he’s inside Bucky’s mind. He’s experiencing exactly what Bucky is experiencing, as if those experiences were his own – he puts it down to the extra level of integration provided by his arm being wired in, but has a sneaking suspicion that it’s also partly because of the alterations that have been made to Bucky’s mind. A strange sense of first-person observation washes over him, as the memories fade into the drift. 

He’s vaguely aware of Maria Hill exclaiming something about _synchronisation seventy percent and rising_ – but he doesn’t listen, can’t listen – he’s immersed in Bucky’s memories. 

Steve moves as Bucky moves: they plant their feet at the same time, in the same position; he sees through Bucky’s eyes – sees himself through Bucky’s eyes, being beaten and bruised by him. Everything’s in reverse: next, he sees himself come to Bucky’s rescue, preventing the wipe that Karpov wanted to perform on him. 

He sees Bucky’s flight over from St. Petersburg. He sees Bucky waking up from a procedure. He sees Bucky sparring, and three KGB agents carried out on stretchers. 

From then on, it’s only flashes of memory: even his time with the Russians isn’t one hundred percent clear as day – his memories are fragmented, other than those concerning the last few days. He sees Bucky strangling, and cutting, and bleeding – sees him enter the drift with others, an unstable force, overloading their minds and causing them to pass out. 

He sees one of his failed co-pilots – a young man, no more than a kid really – start to seize under the weight of the scars that tear across Bucky’s mind, and memories that cut like broken, jagged glass. He slumps to the floor, amidst sirens and screams, and all the while Bucky stares blankly, not sure how to react. 

“Did he – did he _die_?” Steve asks, shocked and horrified.  
“He couldn’t cope,” Bucky says, shrugging – he sounds as if he’s trying to be casual, but there’s a note of uncertainty in there, accompanied by a faint hint of red in the drift, to go with all the black and grey. 

That draws Steve’s full attention: a boy may have died, and Bucky can’t seem to bring himself to feel anything about it. Then he realises: he never saw the boy die – but Bucky showed him that memory on purpose. Just like Natasha, he can at least partially control what goes on in the drift – but not to hide memories. 

To show them off. 

_Bucky’s trying to intimidate you, with all these memories of hurting and killing, in and out of the drift._

Steve feels like he might break down at any second – but in his heart, he knows what he has to do. He has to combat those awful, violent memories with some of his own. 

“I remember you at that age, Buck,” He says, trying to ignore the monochrome violence of Bucky’s memories in the drift, as he summons his own more colourful ones. “You only joined up cause of me,” His voice is barely a murmur – Bucky looks at him, frowning, as colour blossoms in the drift. 

_Steve and Bucky on a run during their basic training – Bucky was always a good runner. Steve used to have trouble breathing after a few minutes, during his childhood: but he got better, and stronger. Bucky stayed with him through it all._

“. . . What is this?” Bucky asks, frowning at the drift, and looking between it and Steve. 

_He and Bucky sparred all the time – they never hit each other, though, always blocking one another’s attacks. That was when they were picked out as two of the best potential pilots in the entire programme, by Director Fury himself: the way they moved was fluid, a perfect mix of intuition and non-verbal communication helping them to coordinate._

“. . . Stop this,” Bucky says through gritted teeth. The drift grows grey, again, as Bucky recalls all of the damage he has done as the Winter Soldier – all of the kaiju he’s ripped apart in his Russian jaeger, all of the recruits he’s helped train, all the co-pilots he’s gone through like canon-fodder. 

But it’s too late: Steve’s memories are like a freight-train, and they won’t be stopped. Even despite the violent memories Bucky is experiencing, Steve’s remain like vibrant silhouettes behind them. 

_Steve and Bucky smiling, and laughing; Steve and Bucky watching a movie, and throwing popcorn at each other. Steve and Bucky wrestling on their bedroom floor – panting, breathless, looking into one another’s eyes for a long, long moment, with Bucky pinning Steve in a grip that’s too tight to allow for escape – but he’ll let Steve go in half a second, when he says he wants Bucky to get off him._

__If _he says he wants Bucky to get off him._

“You were always kinda scrappy,” Steve says, a sad smile on his face as he reminisces. Bucky’s trying hard to push the Winter Soldier’s memories into the drift; but it’s futile, when he keeps getting distracted by the gentle, happy memories Steve is showing him. 

Slowly, it becomes less of a battle between them, and more of a collaboration: Steve shows Bucky the memories, while Bucky sits back and watches them, trying not to interrupt. 

Steve hopes to God that Bucky’s not just watching to get more intel on him, for his report log – but from the way his lips are parted and his eyes shine brightly, wide open as he watches the drift, Steve thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s paying attention because he wants to. 

And how long has it been since Bucky did something just because he _wanted_ to? 

“We used to pilot together,” Bucky says – he sounds a little shell-shocked, as he watches the memory of them first setting foot in Justice Inferno.  
“Yeah,” Steve confirms, his voice as gentle as he can manage: he can see the denial and the urge to fight him draining out of Bucky by the moment, but he doesn’t want to take one step forward, only to take two steps back. He has to be careful. 

“Remember the paint on the outside?” Steve asks – he summons the memory of Bucky sitting on the arm of the Inferno, beaming down at him and covered in paint. He hopes to God Bucky recognises that thrilled, scruffy little punk as himself. 

“I had two arms there,” Bucky notes in a small voice. He licks his lips; his mouth is dry, suddenly, and he’s terrified by the images he’s being shown, because it makes it all real – everything Steve’s been trying to tell him, everything the Russians have denied. 

SHIELD are smart, but they can’t fabricate memories like the Russians can: everything he’s seeing here is completely genuine. There’s no way for Steve to lie, or make something up, or hide anything from him. 

So that really is him. He painted this craft red, white and blue. He used to be an American. He used to be – 

“What happened to Bucky?” He murmurs. 

The drift clouds over: a great dark blue washes in, catching Steve off-guard – he’s been staring at Bucky’s awed face for what feels like years, willing him to remember – but now he looks back at the drift, his face dropping as he sees what Bucky sees, through his eyes again. 

_First person_. Courtesy of the extra neural links, in the device that links Bucky's arm to the jaeger, and the alterations to Bucky’s brain. 

He feels like he’s on the left, when he’s on the right – he’s experiencing piloting Justice Inferno from Bucky’s point of view. It takes him half a second to realise which memory this is. 

“Bucky-” He warns suddenly, trying to reach him, and prevent this from playing out – _I can’t go through this again._ We _can't go through this again._

But it’s no use: the great clawed hand of the kaiju tears through the memory, ripping Bucky’s arm off again in stark, vicious technicolour. 

Steve and Bucky both scream along with the memory – there’s shouting over the coms, but they can’t hear it, as the loud death-throes of the kaiju and their own wailing agony blocks everything else out. The drift shows Bucky’s perspective, staring up at Steve, who’s screaming his name, as he clings onto the side of the jaeger. 

But he can’t hold on for long: his bleeding fingers slip from the sharp metal to a harmony of screams, and he falls down – down and down and _down and down and down-_

The drift goes dark: the yelling over the coms stops; the two of them hold their breath, both wondering what will come next. Though this is undoubtedly Bucky’s memory, it’s all new to him, as much as it is to Steve: he’s so out of touch, so detached from his own past, that he can’t consciously remember what comes next. 

But his brain shows the two of them, anyway. 

The memories are, like before, fragmented: _he’s being hauled from the water – he’s being thawed out – he’s being dragged through the snow – there are bright lights, and sterile instruments, and – and unbearable, complete, world-consuming agony._

The panic and the screaming have no effect on the drift, which continues to produce its sickening flashes of memory: _a prison cell, a gap where his arm used to be – then, waking up, looking at his hands in horror – one of them is heavier, made of shining articulated metal – there’s a red star on his arm – he grabs one of the men who did this to him – where am I? Where’s Steve?_

The final memory the two of them experience is the worst, for them both – worse than the loss of his arm, worse than the surgery – _Bucky is pushed back into a chair, strapped down, the apparatus set up –_

 _My finest creation_ , a faceless man murmurs to Bucky: _my twisted joke on the Americans._

_Then, nothingness: a great, red void, swirling and saturated, an endless cycle of fear – memories erased, and half-remembered, and erased, and half-remembered - terror the one constant throughout it all._

_Where am I? Who – where – where’s-_

Bucky turns to his co-pilot: tears are streaming down both of their cheeks from the unbearable pain they’ve just re-experienced, and the weight of the revelations they’ve both just been exposed to. Maria Hill is excitedly saying something about them now being at ninety-five percent synchronisation – _almost as good as before_ – but neither of them are listening. 

A short-haired, younger Bucky throws his arm around a skinnier, smaller Steve’s shoulders, in the drift: it’s Steve’s mind idling, as neither of them are paying attention to anything but each other’s faces anymore. Steve waits apprehensively for what Bucky’s about to say – he prays silently that he won’t become aggressive, and shut him out again, as he’s done so far. 

His fears fall away, shed and replaced by new worries, thoughts and hopes as Bucky says one small, breathless, _terrified_ word to him:  
“. . . Steve?” 

-

It’s clear, from what Steve saw in the drift, that Bucky now remembers _something_ about his life before being the Winter Soldier, at least. He doesn’t really know to what extent: sure, they’d gone through the accident that had claimed Bucky’s life – or so they’d both thought, as he’d fallen into the ocean, flash-frozen and swallowed whole – but Steve doesn’t know whether Bucky’s expression while he was watching Steve’s memories of them growing up together was one of remembrance, or simply of surprise. 

All he knows is that, since they left the jaeger, Bucky’s been really quiet. He hasn’t said a word since he asked after Steve, for the first time in years. He’s clearly on autopilot: he carries himself mechanically, stepping in time with Steve, as he leads them to Director Fury’s office. 

Steve knew the Director would probably want an immediate progress report on their test drift, wanting them to be a fully functioning combat-ready team as quick as possible – but, considering what just happened, he’ll definitely want to see them now. He glances at Bucky nervously, every now and again: he doesn’t want him to feel as if he’s being stared at, or monitored. But, honestly, he doesn’t think Bucky is paying much attention to him right now: he’s staring off into space, tracking invisible monsters with his eyes, as he walks along. 

They ride up silently to Nick Fury’s office. Bucky still won’t look at Steve. 

When they arrive, Fury is already awaiting them, flanked by Deputy Commander Hill. Steve looks between them; sees their expectant gazes, and wonders how the hell to explain what just happened in the drift.  
“Director Fury, sir,” He says, “Deputy Commander Hill,”  
“Enough with the niceties, Rogers – what happened in there?” Hill asks – her voice is urgent, but not aggressive. Clearly, they want to see if their cooperation with the Russians has paid off; they both give Bucky a good onceover – but when Steve looks at his co-pilot, he’s still staring at a point on the ground, his expression blank and his eyes faraway. He looks like his breath is coming a little short – Steve wonders if he’s going to have some sort of panic attack. 

But nothing changes about him; he doesn’t say anything, or even move from his position. So Steve explains on his own. 

“Bucky and I – uh, me and Ranger Barnes – that is to say, the Winter Soldier-” Steve says, struggling to find the appropriate name. Bucky doesn’t react to any of them. “We managed to share memories in the drift,”  
“Yeah, we gathered that – the Deputy Commander here says you got seventy percent synchronisation right off the bat,” Fury recounts. “And then – what did you say, Hill?” Fury says, turning to her.  
“Then the system went haywire – you dropped right down, it got dangerous – and then you got right up to ninety five percent,” Hill says.  
“Ninety-five percent. You know, never since the two of you began piloting have two pilots been so synchronised – no one’s denying that. But what happened in the middle, there?” Fury asks, looking highly sceptical. 

“There was some – conflict,” Steve says, eyeing Bucky again. He’s silent, and still: they're traits Steve fears have been burned into him. “Our memories conflicted with one another, but then – then Bucky started to see things from my perspective . . . And I saw things from his,”  
“What kind of things?” Fury asks, frowning. 

Steve pauses for a moment: the source of his hesitation is Bucky. His eyes are wide, and he’s staring at the ground, as always – Steve wonders if he’s reliving the memory Steve’s about to share with them. 

“The night of the accident. We experienced it from his perspective,” 

There’s a long, drawn-out moment of silence. 

Hill finally mutters, “That explains why their vitals went crazy – reliving a catastrophic injury like that . . .” 

From the corner of his eye, Steve sees Bucky’s metal hand twitch; sees him look down at it, and frown. It’s heartbreaking to watch him come to terms with the limb as something that wasn’t always there; a change made to him artificially, by his handlers – Steve wonders if he’ll grow to think of them as _captors_ , eventually. 

“We need to know if that’s going to happen again – if it does, it could ruin a mission, and cost lives . . . Do you think you’re safe to drift?” Fury asks Steve – he doesn’t address Bucky, having gotten the message that his brain is out to lunch. Steve doesn’t like that attitude, though: he feels a little like Karpov, answering questions in Bucky’s place, and dictating to him what he’ll do. 

Steve sets his jaw, and turns to Bucky. After a second of hesitation, he reaches out, and – _ever so carefully, and ever so slowly_ – gently takes Bucky’s right shoulder in his hand. 

Bucky’s head snaps up, and he’s staring into Steve’s eyes with a look of something like fear. But, then, something tiny yet incredible happens. 

The fear dissipates: ever so slightly, his expression changes, so now he’s nervous and surprised – but not outright afraid. He’s not pulling away, he’s not stopped breathing, he’s not attacking Steve. Each one of those small, seemingly insignificant things are victories, to Steve: they're things he could never have achieved yesterday. It's almost like _trust_. 

For over five years, now, he’s cursed drift technology for making him feel the weight of Bucky’s ‘death’ every day, as if he experienced it for himself; it embedded in his mind the sensation of helplessness and agony that went with dying - or so he thought. 

But now drift technology is actively helping give that same friend, whose death he lamented all those years, back to him; he’d experience the accident a thousand times over, just for this moment – Bucky reaches up with his right hand, and places it over Steve’s somewhat experimentally. It’s like he’s working on muscle memory: his expression is slightly puzzled, and thoughtful. 

“What do you say?” Steve asks, looking Bucky in the eye – letting him know he trusts his decision, here. 

Steve’s co-pilot swallows, looking from Steve’s face to their hands, and back again; the Director and Deputy Director look on wordlessly, intrigued, as they watch the Rangers well and truly reunite with one another. 

Finally, Ranger Barnes makes his decision, and speaks:  
“. . . I think I want to know more about Bucky,”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just extend my infinite thankfulness once more to everyone who's reading this fic, you're all the greatest uwu
> 
> I hope you like what I've done here!!

Steve enters his room ahead of Bucky: it used to be their room, after all. He doesn't know where else to start. 

There’s complete silence, as he steps aside, and shows Bucky in: he spares a second to notice that the room is empty. It’s around noon – he wouldn’t expect Natasha to be here usually, but he’d suspected that she’d want to be here to support him. 

Maybe she just didn’t want to intrude . . . Maybe. Something tells Steve there’s more to it than that. 

Bucky stands in the dead centre of the room. His eyes scan from corner to corner, wall to wall – just like when Steve watched him enter Bruce's lab for the first time. Slowly, he turns, taking in the possessions on the desk, and Natasha’s unmade bed; Steve’s pristine one, on the top bunk. 

“You sleep on the top bunk,” Bucky says, continuing to turn, without changing his mostly blank facial expression.  
“Yeah,” Steve says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head – he doesn’t want to interrupt. He feels, for a moment, as if _he_ should leave.  
“You have a female co-pilot,” Bucky says in a smaller voice, looking down at Natasha’s bed when he’s completed his 360 degree assessment of the room.  
“. . . Yeah. She's ex-KGB,” Steve confirms. He’s not sure what Bucky makes of that.  
“What is she like?” Bucky asks, suddenly looking at Steve – but not into his eyes. His eyes linger around Steve’s chest, his head bowed slightly. “In the drift,” He adds, clarifying his meaning.  
“She’s . . . Secretive,” Steve says, after considering the question for a moment.  
“Pilots are modified,” Bucky says, nodding, like it makes perfect sense. “We can share what we want to . . . Usually,” He adds, thinking back to their recent drift, and grimacing.  
“We don’t do that here,” Steve says, quietened by his grief. Bucky nods, though it’s obvious. He looks back at Natasha’s bed.  
“Where did we live?” Bucky asks.  
“Right here. You had the bottom bunk, then,” He says. He feels like he’s having to go through everything a million times – he knows it’s just Bucky confirming that everything is real, to himself. He knows how much they messed with his memory, after all. 

He thought everything Steve was telling him was lies: his handlers told him Steve and SHIELD would lie to him - but now, to find out that he had it reversed all along . . . It makes him question everything that happened to him in Russia. The pain used to be worth it – used to be for a noble cause. All that agony would go towards him piloting for the Motherland, testing their pioneering equipment, and proving once and for all that they can beat SHIELD. 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, pointing at the desk. Steve tracks his movement, and sees he’s pointing at the sketchbook. He’s right to question it: amongst official documents, personal hygiene products and pens and paper, the thick black book, with its pages crinkled and fanning out with overuse, is pretty incongruous.  
That doesn’t mean Steve is happy he brought it up. The reason he hasn’t taken Bucky to his old locker, yet, is because he doesn’t want to pile too much onto him right now. It could do more harm than good, as he sees it.  
“Just a sketchbook,” Steve says, clearing his throat slightly. Bucky makes eye contact, moving to be in his eye line. His gaze is searching, and suspicious.  
“Now I _know_ you’re lying. You’re a terrible liar,” Bucky tells him. Steve smirks, at that, despite himself.  
“What? It _is_ a sketchbook,” Steve points out.  
“What is it I called you in those memories?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. “Ah – punk. You’re a punk,” 

Steve pauses, his smile still on his face, when he hears that. It’s just so _close_ to what Bucky used to sound like, it makes his heart ache. He can almost pretend, for a moment, that nothing’s changed – but then Bucky picks up the sketchbook with his left hand, which shines under the bar light on the ceiling. 

“Bucky, wait-” Steve says, reaching out a hand. Bucky retracts the book, out of his reach; he gives Steve a calculating look, getting a measure of him for a moment, as he does so.  
“What?” He asks.  
“You just – back there-” Steve makes a vague gesture, but they both know he means their test drift. "My memories kind of overwhelmed you. I don’t want that to happen again,” He says, indicating the book.  
“Captain,” Bucky says, sounding exasperated. “This is my decision,” He reminds him. 

Steve shuts his mouth abruptly. He thinks about Karpov and the other Russians, discussing what they were going to do with Bucky, right in front of him – all the while, not offering him a say in his own fate. 

And suddenly, he has no will to deny Bucky the right to see the sketchbook – after all, it is his. 

So he backs off, leaving the book to Bucky, who nods in thanks.  
“You can, uh – you can take a seat,” Steve says, indicating the seat at the desk. Bucky sits down without even looking up, or pausing slightly. Steve cringes – something about the way Bucky moved then was mechanical, as if he was just obeying orders. 

But the way he shifts slightly in the chair, trying to get comfortable . . . He might not even know he’s doing it. But it’s incredibly human. _Maybe he wasn’t just doing what he was told – maybe he just trusts me_ , Steve thinks. _Trusts that I know what’s good for him._

_I hope so, anyway._

“So this belongs to you,” Bucky says – but he’s not really asking, just airing his thoughts quietly as he flips the pages. Steve sidles up, and leans against the desk, being sure not to knock over any of the stuff on it – the mirror he uses for shaving, and Natasha uses for make-up; the documents and reports they have to review; the research papers Natasha recommended he read to catch up on how kaiju attacks have changed over the last five years. It’s all necessary; the only thing on there that was surplus to requirements was the sketchbook, which Steve guesses is why Bucky zeroed in on it. 

That, or he remembered it, from long ago. Steve wishes that were the case. 

Bucky’s face changes in tiny fractions, as he turns the pages: each one contains those same pictures Steve has looked at time and time again during his time back at the Shatterdome, missing Bucky, and wishing he had him back. Now the same guy he wanted back is in front of him, and it’s bittersweet. 

Bucky’s face softens up, as he looks at the sketches – he’s arrived at the middle portion of the book, in no time: the pictures Bucky did before the fall. There are a couple of skinny, sickly young Steve -  
“This is you?” He asks Steve, who nods. So, he carries on turning the pages. “The change is remarkable,” He comments.  
“Uh-huh,” Steve hums, not wanting to interrupt Bucky. 

He pauses, when he reaches a picture of the old Bucky, short-haired and happy, with his arm around Steve’s shoulders: Steve’s big, like he is now. Steve realises Bucky’s got to one of the last drawings he did before he fell. 

Bucky looks down at the sketch, and touches the picture of his own face with his metal hand. Steve frowns, slightly, as Bucky’s eyes roam across the picture; they look down at his metal arm, and at the rest of his body. Finally, they settle on the mirror, on the desk. 

Steve’s heart skips a beat when Bucky raises the metal hand to his face, and rubs at it, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks confused – slightly horrified, even. He looks between the picture and the mirror, looking troubled, to say the least.  
“Who drew this?” He murmurs.  
“You did,” Steve says simply, not wanting to lie again – that doesn’t mean he’s not afraid of the consequences of what he's just said. 

That causes Bucky to look up at him: Steve’s thankful, because at least it breaks the cycle of him looking between the sketchbook and mirror for a moment. But he’s also terrified, because he doesn’t know what to do: he doesn’t know how to make this better. This isn’t anything he’s been prepared for. 

“I . . . Can see the resemblance,” Bucky tells him. He looks back at the mirror, and takes a deep breath, before letting it out. “My hair is very different,”  
“Yeah,” Steve says. “We could, uh – we could change it, if you wanted,” He says, tentatively. “If you wanted,” He repeats, nervously. Bucky looks up at him again, looking into his eyes for a long moment – and it’s so weird to see Bucky recognising him again, seeing at least some trust directed at him, if not the level they were at before.  
“Maybe,” Bucky says, looking back down. 

_That’s something_ , Steve thinks. _I don’t know what, but it’s . . . It’s something._

Bucky shuts the book, and puts it on the table.  
“Bucky . . . _I_ was an artist,” He says.  
“You’re not anymore?” Steve asks, folding his arms. Bucky shrugs.  
“I . . . Drew _once_ , that I can remember,”  
“What did you draw?” Steve asks, curious. Bucky huffs out a tiny laugh – a broken, strangled sound; strained with disuse. He doesn’t answer.  
“This kind of thing – will make us stronger, in the drift. The more memories, the better the connection,” Bucky recalls his training, falling back on it while everything else is uncertain.  
“Then why did they wipe your memories?” Steve asks, frowning.  
“I don’t know,” Bucky says quietly, staring off into the middle distance again. “Maybe they were afraid of what I’d remember if they didn’t keep doing it . . . Maybe I saw something we just saw in the test drift, and it caused a system overload,” Bucky says, shrugging. Steve can see the concern in his eyes, though – he’s unable to be as nonchalant as he wants to be. 

Then, he says something that takes Steve by surprise: he turns to him, looking him dead in the eye and saying,  
“In the drift, for just a second – I saw us holding hands,”

Steve pauses, his mouth opening and closing, as he tries to recall what memory that could possibly have been. 

But then, he remembers: five years ago, just before the accident . . . Bucky had been sleepy, that morning. He’d been dreaming, and he'd been interrupted by Steve – well, he’d been dreaming of Steve in the first place, so he couldn’t be mad for that long.  
Steve gives Bucky a small, sad smile, as he says,  
“That one never actually happened,”  
For a moment, Bucky’s eyes widen – he thinks Steve means he’s had memories implanted into his head, like the Russians did with him – but Steve is quick to clarify, “It was a dream,” Steve ignores his embarrassment at the fact that memory had turned up – there are more important matters at hand, here.  
“I’ve never shared a dream with a pilot before,” Bucky says, looking down at his hands, lost in thought. A few seconds later, he adds, “. . . That I can remember,” There’s a note of dark humour in his voice that’s so _Bucky_ that Steve almost can’t stand it.  
“It’s a level of closeness I haven’t had since we – since you . . .” Steve clears his throat. “It was just a dream,”  
“Yours?” Bucky asks.  
“No, yours,” Steve answers, steeling himself and looking into Bucky’s eyes. 

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, and he licks his lips. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that. 

He stands up quickly, taking another quick look around the room out of habit.  
“They told me we should eat at midday,” He says; Steve watches as he tucks his hair behind his ears, once or twice.  
“They meant any time after midday – we can eat whenever,” Steve clarifies, “Do you want to eat?”  
That catches Bucky off-guard slightly: he considers it for a moment, before answering:  
“Yeah. Yes, I do,” It sounds like a revelation; Steve realises he probably doesn’t get a whole lot of choice when he eats, or what he eats, back in Russia. 

He tries not to let how much that saddens and angers him creep into his facial expression or voice; he smiles, and says,  
“C’mon. I’ll show you where the pilots eat,” 

-

The cafeteria is busy: the queue for food isn’t too long, but there aren’t that many free seats. However, the table Natasha is sitting at currently has only two occupants: her, and Barton. They look like they’re bickering like children: Steve’s seen it before, but he scarcely believes it every time. They’re supposed to be lethal pilots – Barton was an agent of SHIELD's intelligence division before he was a pilot, and Natasha was KGB – and yet he can see Natasha prodding Barton with a fork, for trying to steal a bread roll from her tray. He smirks slightly at the sight. 

It’s good that _someone_ tries to get along with Natasha – especially when the rest of the pilots, recruits and engineers that are presently in the cafeteria are avoiding her like the plague. 

Bucky looks over his shoulder, seeing what Steve is smiling at, and says,  
“I know that pilot,”  
Steve looks back at him, as they continue queuing for food.  
Bucky continues, “She earned the title of Black Widow. An excellent fighter,” He says.  
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” Steve says. “She’s been my co-pilot for the past couple of weeks,”  
“Do you know why she defected?” Bucky asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. Steve pauses – he really should say, _because she saw what they were doing to you._ But he can’t say that - he doesn't want to. 

“She said it was a difference in opinion with the KGB,” He explains. He doesn’t like not giving Bucky the whole story, but he’s not sure how well he would take it. And besides – it’s not his story to tell. That information is Natasha’s to share, and hers alone. Anything else would be a betrayal of her trust. 

“I see,” Bucky says, nodding – though it’s clear from the look in his eyes that he doesn’t fully understand why she would do that. It’s never occurred to him – until today, at least – that anyone could choose to get away from the Motherland. 

They get their food – Bucky just copies what Steve gets, because he doesn’t usually get a choice, and he doesn’t really know what he likes – and Steve leads the way over to Natasha. 

It’s then that he realises the cafeteria is quieter than before; he notices all the eyes staring at him – and, more importantly, at Bucky. Sure, he’s Captain America – but Bucky’s the Winter Soldier. Ranger Barnes is as famous as Steve is, around the Shatterdome – by now, the rumours about Bucky and the Winter Soldier being one and the same have spread like wildfire. Steve thought they were bad with Natasha, just because she was Russian – but the way they stare at Bucky is on a whole new level. 

Steve doesn’t know if it’s the fact he’s Russian, or he used to be one of them, or if it’s his metal arm – but they’re looking at him with varying degrees of horror and awe. 

Steve stares down each of them, leading Bucky over to Natasha’s table.  
“Mind if we join you?” Steve says.  
“Sure,” Barton says, without even looking up, before continuing on with the conversation he and Natasha were having before: “You can’t deny, a _flying_ jaeger would have a huge advantage – there are flying kaiju now! We’ve gotta step up!”  
“Clint,” Natasha reprimands him, indicating Bucky with a nod of her head. He finally looks up: his eyes travel from Steve to Bucky. His expression becomes slightly guarded for a moment. 

“You the Winter Soldier?” He asks, slightly wary.  
“Yes,” Bucky replies. Steve opens his mouth to try and appease the situation, but Bucky speaks first: “Are you allies of Captain Rogers?”  
“Captain?” Barton mutters incredulously. Natasha intervenes:  
“Yes, we are. Take a seat,” She says, giving Barton a death glare. He shuts up for a moment.  
Bucky and Steve take the opposite side of the table. Once they’re sat down, Bucky greets Natasha:  
“Black Widow,”  
“Uh, we call her _Natasha_ , actually,” Steve tells him. Bucky looks from Steve, to Natasha, silently asking her if that’s right.  
“Natasha. Thanks,” She says. “And this is Clint Barton,” She says, indicating Barton.  
“Hi,” Barton says, with a quick wave, as Steve and Bucky start eating. A second later, he’s vying for Natasha’s attention again: “As I was saying – flying jaegers are the _future_. Stark told me himself,”  
“He doesn’t know everything, Clint,” Natasha reminds him.  
“Well, yeah – but he is a genius. And I bet he’s got his eye on you for the solo-jaeger operation,” 

Natasha snorts. “Please. As if he’ll ever use that technology for anyone other than himself,” 

Steve frowns, looking confused:  
“Wait, he’s using it himself? . . . I thought that was just a rumour?”  
“Yeah, well so was your _friend_ here, and here he is,” Barton says, nodding at Bucky. Natasha looks unimpressed – Barton hisses, suddenly in pain, and scowling at her. Steve realises she probably just kicked him under the table.  
Steve glances at Bucky: he’s eating methodically, starting at the bottom of the tray and working his way up, with very deliberate movements. He looks uncomfortable, Steve notices: aside from his arm drawing attention to him, he, like Natasha, wears the all black uniform they were supplied with before leaving Russia, whilst SHIELD employees wear a mix of colours. Steve wears dark blue; Clint wears grey and purple; Thor’s mechanics wear red. 

“What are you doing here, Clint? I thought you and Sam would be on call today,” Steve asks. He leaves out the assumption that he and Bucky would be on call, waiting for the alarm to go off at any second, if their test drift had been less traumatic for all involved.  
“Nope – Alpha Thunder's taking over. Foster and Lewis agreed to cover us. Sam’s out of town visiting Riley’s family today,” Clint explains. He takes a bite of one of his rolls, not wanting to put too fine a point on what he’s said.  
“Ah,” Steve says.  
“Riley?” Bucky asks, pausing and frowning – he’s already worked out that this Sam must be Barton’s co-pilot.  
“A friend of Sam’s from his days as a para-rescuer. He passed away,” Steve mentions to him quietly.  
“. . . Oh,” 

Steve realises Bucky’s not moving: his left hand is rested on the table, clenched into a fist; his right grips his fork tightly, and he’s staring down at the table. 

“Bucky?” He asks quietly. Luckily, Clint and Natasha have moved on, and are now having a heated debate about whether it’s better to be good with long-range jaeger weapons such as canons, or shorter range ones, such as the sword affixed to Alpha Thunder. 

But Bucky doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t hear much, at all. Everything is muffled, and far away, as he recalls one of the memories he saw in the drift earlier – the one of the young pilot passing out during the drift, and having to be carried out – but it’s not the memory that throws him. 

It’s the way Steve reacted – with such horror, and sorrow. He felt those things in synchrony with him: as he thinks about the dead man Barton’s co-pilot mourns for, he wonders – _did the boy die? Was he permanently injured? . . . Is someone grieving him, right now, because of me?_

_. . . And why do I feel this – this horrible weight, inside – why do I feel guilty?_

“Bucky-”

He flinches when he feels a hand on his shoulder – he grabs it with his left hand , taking the wrist and immobilising it. There’s a couple of shouts, and a hiss – he looks up, his eyes seeing the present for the first time in minutes: he sees his metal hand clasped around Steve’s wrist; sees his face contorted in pain, from the constriction. 

Coming to his senses, he lets go, staring wide-eyed and in horror at Steve. Steve withdraws his hand, cradling it for a moment, and examining it for a few seconds for damage – he looks up, searching Bucky’s face for any sign of aggression. 

But all he sees is regret: he bites his lip, to stop it from shaking; his face crumples slightly, as he watches Steve in pain. 

Then, Steve musters a smile: it’s thin, and watery, but he manages it.  
“It’s okay, buddy – nothing's broken,” He says, though his voice is a little strained. He remembers Bucky telling him something similar, long ago, after a run-in with a bully when he was younger. Bucky always helped patch him up. 

Bucky looks from him to Clint and Natasha, who are standing on the other side of the table, their postures battle-ready and tense. As soon as they receive a nod from Steve, though, they sit back down. 

All four of them ignore the stares and open mouths of everyone around. 

They get back to eating, though they do so in silence, for the next few minutes. Bucky finds he has no appetite.  
Steve watches his co-pilot tuck his hair behind his ears a few times, in between rearranging the food on his plate distractedly. The atmosphere is tense, now – it’s clear Bucky is angry at himself, and doesn’t feel like he should be there. Steve likes to think they built up some kind of trust, earlier, which is why it’s horrible to see Bucky like this. He clearly thinks he doesn’t deserve that trust – _especially_ after having been shown the old memories of them together, both in the drift and the sketchbook. He can't measure up to the old Bucky; doesn't deserve the same trust afforded to him, in his opinion. 

He tucks his hair behind his ears again, and stands up abruptly.  
“I shouldn’t be here,” He says, stepping out from the table.  
“Bucky-” Steve says, reaching out to touch him – but Bucky withdraws, not trusting himself not to react like he did a few moments ago.  
“I’ll see you tomorrow for the drift,” He says, before turning away.  
“Winter Soldier,” Natasha calls suddenly – that gives him pause. He turns back to her, slowly, with a curious expression. She meets his gaze with her own, and hands something to him – something small. Steve can’t see, and frowns. 

“Hair ties,” She explains simply. “Always keep some with me,”  
Bucky takes the couple she’s given him, and looks down at them thoughtfully – he frowns, slightly, looking back up at her.  
“. . . Thank you,” He says, and it’s genuine – then he turns around, and leaves. 

Steve sighs, scrubbing at his face, and wondering what the hell he’s going to do about Bucky – how he should act around him, how much he should tell him, how much he can _endure_.

But, first thing’s first:  
“Thanks,” He tells Natasha. He would never have thought of that – Bucky didn’t seem like he really wanted to cut his hair, earlier, but he wanted to change it in some way after seeing the pictures of his younger self. It’s the perfect solution, really.  
“It’s the least I can do,” Natasha says, in a low voice – she looks down at her food as she speaks. Steve realises she feels she has to atone, after leaving Bucky behind when she defected: he doesn’t blame her for that, but she clearly blames herself. Steve gives a great sigh, and stands up, grabbing his and Bucky’s trays.  
“I’m gonna go for a run, I think,” He says, quietly. Clint and Natasha watch him as he walks away, putting the trays away, and leaving the room with his gaze cast squarely at the floor, away from the prying eyes of everyone staring at him. 

“They’ll sort it out,” Clint says. It’s not his usually breezy, carefree voice, Natasha finds. She looks at him questioningly. “Me and Sam did. They can too,”  
“Sam wasn’t tortured by the Russians for years,” Natasha points out.  
“Not by the Russians, no,” Clint says, “Beat himself up pretty bad for years, though,” 

Natasha doesn’t have anything to say to that, other than thinking to herself, _that’s pretty insightful, for agent Barton_. He’s right, though – all pilots have baggage, but most of them can still synchronise. No one has baggage like Steve and Bucky – but, then again, no one can synchronise like Steve and Bucky. 

_They can work through this_ , she thinks. _If anyone can do it, it’s them._

\- 

To Steve's surprise, when he comes back from his shower after his run, Bucky is waiting for him beside his room door. Natasha is still away with Clint – _probably got into another several-hour-long argument about which is the best American jaeger_ – but Bucky’s there, standing sentry by his door, awaiting his return. 

When he sees Steve approach, he straightens up: it’s been a few hours since they last saw each other, what with Steve taking several laps of the Shatterdome to clear his head. Bucky dedicated his spare time to exercising in the training room, too – as well as writing in his ever-important log, which was briefly interrupted towards the end by the kaiju alarm going off, calling Rangers Foster and Lewis for duty. 

He found himself drawing his co-pilot, again. This time, with that weak smile on his face, pretending he isn’t hurt for Bucky’s benefit. He’s struck, again, by how sad an expression that truly is. It affects him more than he’d have thought possible. 

Steve is slightly guarded, seeing Bucky standing at his door: the Winter Soldier wanting to see you is usually not a good thing, he senses. But he won’t think about it like that: he _can’t_. All he sees is Bucky, standing with his arms crossed, and his feet planted, beside his door. 

He looks more like Bucky, now, with his hair tied back in some messy up-do facilitated by the ties Natasha gave him earlier. He looks a lot more comfortable like that, Steve thinks, feeling a little better on his behalf. 

“I’d like to talk to you,” He says to Steve, when he approaches. Steve is a little taken aback at how forward he’s being – but he goes with it, when Bucky indicates the door of his own room. He follows Bucky inside, idly drying his hair with a towel, to stop it from getting his vest and combat trousers wet. 

Bucky shuts the door behind them, and indicates for Steve to sit down on the bottom bunk: he does so, wondering where this is all going. 

Bucky turns around, and takes a deep breath, before speaking:  
“Before we continue our partnership further, I have some potentially important information,” He says.  
“What? What kind of thing?” Steve asks warily. Bucky licks his lips.  
“It’s not – I’m not . . .” He sighs. “The KGB want me to gather intel about SHIELD, during this assignment. They wish to know more about the workings of this division,” He states plainly.  
“What?” Steve asks, surprised – though he knows that Fury or Natasha wouldn’t be at all shocked to hear this news. He’s just more willing to believe in a partnership based on trust and peace than they are, he guesses. “. . . They want you to spy on us?”  
“It’s part of the reason I’m here,” Bucky confesses.  
“Wait – why are you telling me this?” 

Bucky pauses, licking his lips again – his hands move, and he’s making gestures, but he can’t find the words. There’s silence, in the room, aside from the clicks and whirrs of his left arm articulating.  
“. . . You trust me,” He says, finally.  
“Yeah, I . . . I guess I do,” Steve says. He’s unable to deny it – he just doesn’t believe that Bucky, Winter Soldier or not, would betray him. He doesn’t have it in him – neither of them do.  
“If we’re going to work together as co-pilots, I can’t hide from you,” He says. “I need to keep you trusting me,”  
“But-” Steve says, and pauses for a second, biting his lip, “Jesus, Buck . . . What will they do to you, if they find out you told me this?” 

Bucky huffs out a humourless laugh, at that – he sits down slowly beside Steve.  
“I don’t know,” He says. Steve knows enough about Bucky, both as he is now and how he was back before the fall, to know he’s lying. He knows what they’ll do; he wants to spare Steve the details. 

Steve rubs his face, trying to stop gaping.  
“I . . . Thank you, for telling me,” Steve says, sincerely. He looks into Bucky’s eyes, and repeats it, so he knows it’s completely genuine: “Thank you,” 

Bucky gives him a small smile.  
“Are you going to tell Fury?” Steve asks.  
“I thought you’d tell him anyway,” Bucky admits.  
“Not without your say-so,” Steve says adamantly. Bucky sighs.  
“. . . Yeah. Yeah, I will. The KGB are still gonna want intel,”  
“You could always tell them some of the less important stuff,” Steve reasons.  
“Like what, what the pilots get to eat?” Bucky says sarcastically. Steve nudges his shoulder, looking down at his hands clasped together in his lap with a smile.  
“Shut up, jerk,” He tells him, amused. 

He finally hears a genuine chuckle from Bucky, at that point; they both realise, in time, that Steve just touched Bucky casually, without preamble, and without it soliciting any sort of negative reaction. 

There’s a period of silence, then, as Steve looks up at Bucky with a smile; Bucky smiles back, feeling a strange, unfamiliar feeling creep up inside himself – he’s proud of himself, for making Steve laugh. 

Or, maybe . . . Maybe he’s glad, that Steve is happy. Maybe he likes it when Steve is happy. Maybe he wants Steve to be happy. 

It’s a strange feeling, to want to cause anything but damage. 

“It’s funny,” Steve says, eventually, “SHIELD, the KGB . . . They can’t put aside this rivalry, even to save lives,”  
“Nothing comes before the Motherland,” Bucky says, shrugging – though the statement is wistful. Steve sees a faraway expression on his face; his mouth is a grim line, as he remembers all the awful things he’s seen and done in service of his country. 

_If it’s even my country_ , Bucky thinks. _I guess technically, it’s not._

His brow scrunches up, at that thought – he tells Steve, “It’s . . . Hard, to know whose side I’m on,”  
“I thought you said nothing comes before the Motherland,” Steve says, slightly bitter.  
“For them, yeah . . . But finding out all these things, after being there as long as I can remember . . . All that time not questioning why I was there, and what I was doing, cause I was working for this great country . . . Finding out I’m not really one of them is – it’s hard. I don’t know who to side with, anymore,” He says, lacing his fingers together, and frowning at them. “I don’t really fit in anywhere,”  
“You do,” Steve says immediately – and, cautiously, lays a hand on Bucky’s left hand. For a heartbeat, he thinks something will go terribly wrong, and he’ll end up with a broken wrist for sure this time. But Bucky looks at the contact between them, and up at Steve’s face, simply wondering what he means. “You fit in, Buck – you fit in by my side, in our jaeger. Not with them,” Steve says, feeling a sudden rush of emotion as he says the words he’s wanted to say since he first saw Bucky.  
“We’re co-pilots – we have been forever. We’re drift compatible, we’re synchronised – you’re my friend,” He affirms.  
“You’re – you’re _supposed_ to be my mission,” Bucky says sadly – but Steve’s blue eyes draw his gaze, magnetic as they gather his full attention.  
“Then finish it – or don’t finish it. Do what you want, side with who you like – just do what you need to, Bucky . . . Cause I’m with you til the end of the line,” 

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but finds that no words come out – he’s left gaping, confused, as Steve’s words ring through his head, repeating over and over, like a clock striking twelve. 

_Til the end of the line._

He looks down, and finds that his metal hand has curled itself around Steve’s hand; Steve’s stroking the metal knuckles with his thumb. Ranger Rogers’ eyes are red; he feels a sting behind his eyes, too. He hasn't felt that strange sensation in a long time - doesn't even really recognise it as the precursor to tears. 

_Til the end of the line._

“. . . Will you stay?” Bucky asks – his voice comes out quiet, and croaky. It’s not his intention.  
“Hey,” Steve says softly, with a smile despite his emotions taking hold for a few moments, “What did I just say?” 

Bucky sniffs; calls him _punk_ , enjoying the feeling that this conversation brings him: a sense of belonging, and even _home_ , that he never experienced in Russia – or anywhere, that he can recall. 

It’s a good feeling, though. He thinks Steve feels the same – he hasn’t seen him smile as much as this in a very, very long time. Not outside of the drift, with the old version of himself, anyway. 

But he definitely likes it. 

-

Steve doesn’t remember falling asleep – but when he comes back to awareness, he’s being shaken, and told,  
“Steve – Steve, wake up – that’s the kaiju alarm, am I wrong?”  
“Bucky? . . . What time is it?” He asks, bleary-headed. He realises he’s on the bottom bunk; the sheet beside him is warm, but Bucky’s standing up, trying to rouse him.  
“It’s past midnight –the alarm went off earlier, and Foster and Lewis aren’t back yet,” Bucky tells him urgently. That grabs Steve’s attention.  
“Wait – two kaiju attacks in one day?” He asks, waking up pretty damn quick.  
“Steve – we’re the only crew left,”  
“Sam’s away – Natasha and Clint haven’t had a test drift-” Steve realises, getting up and pulling on his boots. He straightens up, and sees Bucky fix him with an apprehensive look.  
“Do you trust me?” He asks his co-pilot. Steve places a careful hand on Bucky’s shoulder; he lets it travel up to the back of Bucky’s neck, as the siren blares.  
“With my life,” Steve tells him. “We can do this,”  
“I won’t let you down,” Bucky tells him, looking, for the first time, vulnerable – yet determined. Steve feels as if his handlers were like cruel parents to him, expecting nothing but perfection from him, and punishing him if he didn’t deliver. 

_This time, it won’t be like that_ , he thinks. _And this time, I won’t let you down, either. I won’t let you get taken away again._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all precious and I love you all for being so supportive of this story. Just thought I'd mention that again!!

“What are kaiju doing in the Baltic Sea anyway?” Steve yells, trying to make himself heard on the coms system over the sound of the plane carrying Justice Inferno towards the threat.  
“They’re not supposed to be there, Cap,” Maria tells them over the coms. “But then again, they weren’t meant to be in the Gulf of Finland either, and look how that turned out,” 

Steve glances over at Bucky; Bucky stares back at him, setting his jaw and gulping. Steve gets the sense he’s nervous, for the first time since he came back to SHIELD. He’s seen him angry, sad, shaken – but not _nervous_. He didn’t think the Winter Soldier could experience anxiety of any sort. 

Steve’s arm twinges: he and Bucky roll their left arms in synchrony; they glance at one another.  
“You too . . . ?” Bucky asks curiously.  
“Since the accident,” Steve confirms grimly. Bucky purses his lips – he looks like he wants to apologise, but doesn’t know where to begin. 

Fury deployed them to this mission immediately: Alpha Thunder is currently stationed at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, having dealt with a kaiju threat in Sydney earlier today; with the proximity of the new kaiju threat to the facility in Sweden, they can’t afford to wait for Foster and Lewis to be brought over to Europe. 

The navigation panel in front of Steve and Bucky tells them the kaiju is going to obliterate Malmo and Copenhagen, if they can’t stop it; it looks huge. During Steve’s absence, SHIELD came up with a classification system for kaiju: a scale, on which category one is the smallest (but still massive, by all accounts). 

This, Maria Hill has told them, is a category four. 

“You ready for this, Buck?” Steve says.  
“I won’t let you down,” Bucky says, and Steve feels once again as if he is in _command_ of Bucky, rather than in a partnership with him – he doesn’t like feeling like Karpov, ordering Bucky around.  
“We do this together. As partners – as co-pilots,” Steve says. He knows the Russians used a system whereby the superior pilot was in charge, and the inferior was there for stabilisation – but that’s not how SHIELD does it. Steve can’t work like that. 

“Initiate drift,” Maria Hill says, and the cockpit’s lights dim. 

When the drift fades into life, they see the night-time sea outside through a veil of memories: specifically, drawings. 

_A drawing of young Steve – a drawing of Bucky, with his arm around young Steve’s shoulder – a sketch of young Steve, cheek propped on his hand, frowning down at some ridiculously large tome for homework purposes._

“I remember that book – I always liked studying the civil war,” Steve says fondly. The drift brings the memory to life. 

_Just like in the drawing, Steve reads the book with a look of utter concentration – Bucky finishes up his sketch, looks at his watch, and whistles._  
_"We gotta go, Stevie,” He says, getting up and clapping Steve on the shoulder._  
_“You have to do this essay too, you know,”_  
_“I'll do it later. We've gotta get to gym class,”_  
_“My asthma is playing up, and I . . . I forgot my inhaler,”_  
_“You want me to write you a doctor’s note?”_  
_“. . . Thank you, Buck,”_

Steve casts his gaze towards Bucky: he’s surprised to see him reaching out with his right arm, as if he can almost touch the memory. Steve has to admit, he got a little lost in it, there: his memories are incredibly vivid, when he’s in the drift with Bucky. 

It’s weird, though, to be the more vocal of the two of them: Bucky’s memories used to make up the majority of the drift. Steve was fine with that – now, he feels more exposed, baring more of his thoughts to Bucky. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

“Okay, fellas – we’re dropping you now. Kaiju is at your twelve o’clock,” Maria tells them. They both stare out into the gloom, illuminated only by the cities, throwing their light out into the sea.  
“You don’t say,” Steve murmurs. 

They’re positioned between Malmo and the kaiju, ready to defend the coast from the great creature. They can see it, getting closer: it’s mouth gapes at them, blue and phosphorescent, as it roars. The silhouette gives away how big this thing is: but, unlike before, they’re prepared for it. Thor knows his stuff, and if there's one thing he knows better than anything else, it's how to upgrade a jaeger. The shock absorbance of the craft has been increased, the limbs fortified, and – upon Steve’s insistence – the portside panelling has been strengthened to withstand the force of a flailing kaiju claw. 

Steve forces the memory of Bucky’s side of the jaeger being torn open viciously out of his mind – only an echo of it ends up in the drift, causing them both to wince – instead, he concentrates on the memory of their first ever jaeger fight, to get them focussed. 

“Redskull,” Steve says. “Do you remember Redskull?”  
“I don’t,” Bucky says, apologetically.  
“That’s okay,” Steve says, considering the memory, “You punched its damn head off . . . You always had one hell of a left hook,” 

The memory unfolds in the drift, as the kaiju approaches them, getting closer now.  
“Wait til you see how good it is now!” Bucky calls over the noise of the machinery and the sea outside; Steve sees him chuckle to himself. Not that strained, rasping sound he heard him produce earlier: a genuine peal of laughter. 

Steve grins – he recalls how Bucky used to laugh, and finds his current laugh isn't much different. That memory turns up in the drift; Bucky’s laughter quietens down.  
“Let’s do this,” He says, sounding authoritative.  
“Charge the canons,” Steve says – although Bucky is already charging his. Unlike before, they both have canons – Stark contributed technology to make them charge faster, and make them smaller, so they could fit more than one on each jaeger. 

Steve moves his canon into place, as the kaiju bounds towards them, long limbs propelling it forward. It’s large, yeah – but it’s thin, with ridiculously long limbs. Without those, it’s nothing.  
“Got it,” Bucky says, “Aim for the limbs,” 

Steve nods, forgetting Bucky was experiencing his thoughts – or maybe he was experiencing Bucky’s. The first-person experience he had last time he drifted with Bucky is this time, thankfully, toned down. He hopes it stays that way: it would be a damn confusing way to pilot, both thinking they're on the left. 

“Fire!” Steve yells, as the kaiju rears up, reaching to wrap it’s limbs around Justice Inferno. 

Bucky fires his canon and the same time as Steve: he doesn’t let out his usual triumphant yell of victory as he does so, and Steve finds he misses it. But, as the kaiju screams out, two of its many limbs flying off into the water, he can let it go. 

“Charge again!” Steve yells – but then something catches his eye. “. . . Wait – Bucky, wait! On your side!” He says, staring out at the water. 

There’s a boat, coming into the harbour: it clearly didn’t get the message to retreat and get to a safe distance in time .It's a fairly large vessel: tens of people could be on board, trapped and helpless. 

“We have to do something!” Steve yells.  
“We can’t risk it all for one boat!” Bucky tells him, as the kaiju goes in for another attack – as promised, Bucky delivers his famous left hook. The creature screams, falling back into the sea with a splash that wets the windows of Justice Inferno, sending a tidal wave through the bay – and right towards the boat.  
“Bucky quick!” Steve yells. Bucky looks at him for a moment: in his desperate face, he sees a kid he knew a long, long time ago – one that would ask him for help getting out of gym class when he didn’t have his inhaler; the one who would beg him to come out for a run – _I gotta bulk up, I’ll never get into jaeger corps!_

Bucky blinks, seeing those memories play out in the drift: Steve doesn’t notice them, he’s too busy looking into Bucky’s eyes, waiting for and imploring him to do something to save the boat. He wants to say he remembered something – _I remember helping you get stronger, Steve – I remember trying to protect you_ – but there’s no time. 

Bucky curses in Russian – thankfully not a word Steve can understand, with his rusty skills - and reaches down, plucking the ship right out of the sea with dexterity he’s glad he possesses, for this exact moment. He holds it tight enough to keep it secure, but not tight enough to crush it. 

He’s never rescued a boat from the sea, that he recalls: he’s only ever been a fighter; a warrior. Never a saviour. He didn’t think he had it in him . . . Steve seems more like the saving type. 

“Thank you,” Steve says – it’s barely a whisper, but the warm yellows that blossom in the drift are all Bucky needs to see. He didn’t used to see a lot of yellow in the drift in Russia: just a thousand different shades of black, white, and red. 

Steve fires his canon again: he blasts off another one of the creature’s limbs – but that just seems to make it angrier. It hurls itself at them with no real sense of coordination: it wraps some of its remaining limbs around the craft, and squeezes. 

The sound of metal groaning fills the cockpit, as the body of the jaeger is compressed.  
“Get this sucker off of us!” Bucky yells, sounding angry that he can't do anything, while holding the boat full of people on his side of the Inferno.  
“I’m trying!” Steve says – but he can’t pry the limbs away from the craft, and it’s starting to buckle.  
“Here – try _this_ ,” Bucky says, sounding determined. 

The drift clouds over, growing very dark, and grey: suddenly, the first person perspective Steve experienced before is back. He gasps, as he begins to see through Bucky’s eyes again: he sees him in a dojo, facing a muscle-bound, tattooed Russian opponent. He feels Bucky move to incapacitate the man: feels him jump and roll; feels his legs kick, and his arms strike. He feels limbs break under his hands and feet; hears the sickening crunch of crushed bones, and the screams that come with torn muscle and bruised flesh. 

He realises, suddenly, that he’s prying the limbs of the kaiju off with much greater force than before: he’s dragging the beast off the hull, as Bucky holds the boat out of reach.  
“Oh my God-!” Steve breathes, not believing how much the powerful feelings Bucky’s feeding him are helping him fight. He feels like he can do anything – he feels _invincible._

The drift brings up memories similar to Natasha’s, next: Bucky’s completing a KGB assault course that involves taking out as many men as possible, as quickly and efficiently as he can manage – Steve glances at Bucky, briefly, and sees a determined, aggressive expression on his face, as he concentrates on the pent-up angry memories now appearing in the drift. 

“Now go in with the right hook!” Bucky yells to him, not breaking concentration. Steve does as he says, the feeling of synergy between them making his heart swell – _he needs Bucky again, and Bucky needs him. They’re doing this, and they’re doing it together: they’re using Bucky’s horrible experiences for good, and working with what they have._

_They can do this._

He swings his fist into the beast’s jaw, sending it stumbling backwards, still bleeding black from the limbs it’s already had blown off. Its scream is hideous, as Steve charges his canon.  
“Hold that steady!” He calls to Bucky, who’s still holding the boat, and feeding the combat memories to Steve.  
“Now!” Bucky yells. Steve delivers a swift uppercut to the creature’s head, sending its skull flying backwards: that gives him the opportunity to fire his canon into the vulnerable hollow of its throat. 

He concentrates on his target, and fires: his aim is true, the shot burning a hole through the beast’s neck, and sending it falling into the depths of the sea, dead. 

Steve cries out triumphantly, letting Maria Hill know, “We did it!” 

He turns to Bucky, beaming and delighted – but he hasn’t been paying attention to the drift, in the midst of their victory. 

Bucky’s face still has that stormy, homicidal expression plastered all over it: his arm of the Inferno is still grasping onto the boat – but it’s holding too tight. The digits of the hand squeeze, as aggressive memories keep appearing in the drift: this time using guns, knives, grenades, machetes- 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, looking between the memories and Bucky’s face – but he can’t be reached. Now he’s let those memories flow, he can’t hold them back again . . . Or he's trying, and failing. 

Steve gets a sinking feeling in his gut, as he remembers the cafeteria earlier: Bucky didn’t even recognise him. Now they’re sharing the neural load of piloting a jaeger together, synchronised at ninety-five percent, and Bucky won’t even acknowledge _his presence_ -

“Synchronisation dropping – Steve, he’s charging his canon!” Maria Hill says – it’s true, Steve sees, out of the portside widow.  
“Bucky, listen to me! You have to stop, now! Stop the memories!” He yells, over the crash of the waves, and the noise of the machinery keeping them high above sea level – and, now, the sound of Bucky’s canon charging. Steve curses the fact that it will take _seconds_ for that thing to be ready to fire, now: he’ll kill everyone on that boat, if he does so. He doesn't know if he's imagining them screaming, or if he can genuinely hear them. 

But Steve can’t reach Bucky. 

“Bucky – please!” He cries again. But Bucky’s not paying attention. 

Because he’s remembering being pushed back into a chair, being strapped down, and being given a mouth guard to bite down on.  
“. . . Bucky-” Steve gasps, feeling light-headed with the weight of the memories he’s now experiencing in first person. He knows he won’t be able to bring Bucky back, now: he can't combat the complete terror they're both now experiencing at that particular memory. 

Those people are going to die – he’s going to let Bucky down, again-

_Here comes the mind-wipe – the electricity, the spasms, the agony, the screaming, the awful void where feelings and emotions and memories used to be–_

Steve barely hears the sound of someone speaking Russian over the coms. He frowns, slightly, his vision blurry from the intensity of the memories he’s enveloped in: strangely enough, he doesn’t experience the mind-wipe - he expects it, but it never comes. 

Bucky breaks from his thousand-yard stare, hearing a voice speaking to him in Russian: it’s one of the things he’s learned to pay attention to, above all else. His programming dictates that much. 

Steve can’t really understand what’s going on, but Bucky does: he pauses what he’s doing, and listens.  
“Winter Soldier, stop!” Natasha commands – it immediately gives him pause, to be addressed like that, and in Russian. “Stand down, soldier,” She continues, having grabbed the microphone from Maria Hill. “It’s over. You are far away from that now,” 

Bucky blinks hard a few times: he glances over at Steve, and gapes when he sees that he’s barely standing. Blood drips from his nose, and his eyes move sluggishly. He’s reminded of the boy who passed out while drifting with him, back in Russia: he knows he's gone too far with sharing his memories, this time. _Too much for any normal person to handle – anyone who’s not a machine; not a weapon._

“Stand down,” Natasha’s voice tells him again, in Russian. He casts his gaze around, and realises he's been holding the boat this whole time. He forgot he was holding it, honestly - he's lucky he didn't crush it, or drop it. 

He sets it down in the water, again; discharges his canon. Steve looks a little better by the time he’s finished: not great, but not bleeding from the face, either. In his experience, that’s usually a good thing.  
“I’m sorry,” Bucky tells Steve. For the past few minutes, the drift has just been a swirling mix of red, and dark blue – several memories of Natasha, like ghosts from a past life, linger and fade in and out.  
“Is . . . Is that what it’s like, to be in your head?” Steve asks. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that – other than, “Yes,”  
“All the time?” Steve asks. His voice is hollow, and he looks and sounds as if he’s been punched in the gut. Bucky just nods.  
“I’m so sorry,” Steve replies quietly, his voice still ragged. “I’m gonna help you get better,”  
Bucky just gives him a sad smile, as protocols for their return are put into place and planes fly overhead, ready to carry them back to the Swedish Shatterdome. He doesn’t want to tell Steve, _I don’t know if I’ll ever get better._

He can’t disappoint him like that – not after the disappointment of not being the old Bucky, and of him being a spy, and of him hurting Steve earlier, and almost botching this whole mission – he can’t add the fact he’s broken to that pile of let-downs. 

He can’t become the Bucky he was before; he’s compromised the assignment his handlers gave to him before they left him with SHIELD; he jeopardised this mission just by being present. 

Whose side can he be on, now? Who should he burden with the weight of his failures, and shortcomings? 

What good is he, to anyone? 

He holds these thoughts back, not letting them tint the drift with orange, and red, and black, as he watches Steve’s mind idle: the gentle memories are back, blossoming a faint yellow in the drift. 

He sees himself holding hands with Steve, again. That dream really made an impression on Steve – he clearly loved the old Bucky; it’s a memory of one of Bucky’s dreams, so the old Bucky clearly wanted Steve, back then. 

Bucky wonders to himself if he’s even capable of love, now – or feeling much of anything, at all, other and fear and anger. But while there’s a question there, he feels sure of one thing: after everything he’s done to Steve, hurting him physically and emotionally, and forgetting he existed for the longest time . . . He knows for _certain_ that no one could ever love the Winter Soldier as he is now, after all that. 

He can’t help but stain the drift red with fear, as he thinks that: the weight of his failures, and his fear of what will become of him, is too strong to hold back. 

Steve, though still not one hundred percent recovered, looks at him, and frowns. He wonders what Bucky is so scared of – a strong soldier like him, with skills like he's just exhibited, who's much more powerful than Steve. 

He doesn’t realise Bucky's much more terrified for his future than he can even let on. 

He doesn’t even know how he could tell Steve all of these things, even if he worked up the courage to – so, he remains silent, the entire journey back. 

-

Things get easier. They’re not ever really ‘easy’, and Bucky's confusion about exactly whose side he's on - _whose side it's even possible for him to be on, at this point_ \- persists. But things do get progressively better, as the next month passes. 

The best improvements happen when they’re in the drift: Bucky’s a lot more receptive to Steve’s old memories, and they’ve worked out a way to use Bucky’s pent up rage – the product of fear and conditioning – to make them the strongest, most efficient pilots the Shatterdome’s seen, again. Fury isn't that surprised when Bruce suggests that Steve and Bucky are actually better than before, now that they’ve learned to channel Bucky’s aggression into something productive. 

In four weeks, they take down no fewer than thirty kaiju: Sam and Clint start keeping a tally chart up in the hangar, labelled ‘days without Steve and Bucky kicking ass’: the tally rarely reaches above 1 day. They begin to feel a little redundant, with Steve and Bucky taking out the vast majority of kaiju – until two turn up off the coast of Alaska, requiring two jaegers to eliminate the threat. That mission, everyone agreed in the end, not only covered new ground, but was pretty damn awesome. 

Outside of the drift, and piloting, things are more complicated. There are moments when Steve realises he’s not looking at Bucky, anymore: he knows he’s looking at the Winter Soldier, having been set off by something. Sometimes it’s during their sparring sessions; sometimes it’s just when they have downtime, watching TV. Bucky will see something, and his posture will totally change: he’ll become like a tightly-coiled spring; a predator ready to pounce. Steve has to be careful not to touch him without a lot of prior warning, in that state: Bucky hasn’t hurt him since that day at the cafeteria – but it’s not for lack of trying. Sure, he wasn’t actively trying - but he’s tried to grab him on more than one occasion. Steve's always been able to dodge so far, though. 

But he won’t give up on Bucky. Because, ultimately, things are getting better. 

Most nights, Steve stays in Bucky’s room, now. He waits to be asked: sometimes he is, sometimes he isn’t – and he’s fine with that. Sometimes he takes the top bunk; sometimes Bucky invites him to sit on the bottom bunk, and Steve knows it’s going to be one of those nights where Bucky really, really wants to know what he used to be like. 

_What did I used to wear, Steve? What music did I like? What food did I like?_

But, in the end, Steve reaches the same conclusion –  
“You don’t have to be exactly like him – you have to find out what you like for yourself, now, Buck. It’s no good pretending to be anyone else,”  
Bucky always looks a little downhearted, after that: he thinks it’s Steve telling him he can’t be the old Bucky. But what he’s really saying is, _you shouldn’t try._

“I don’t care that you’re not exactly like him,” Steve says, one evening, when the halls are quiet, and the alarm isn’t blaring. Bucky stares into his own lap: he’s sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk, with Steve sat opposite. The position allows him to keep Steve in his sight, at all times, in case he zones out, and forgets something – or, as has happened a couple of times, forgets _everything_. Those times don’t last long, but they sure are terrifying as hell for everyone involved. 

But, as they drift more and more, forming more and more links to one another, they become less frequent. 

“You must want him back, though,” Bucky replies in a low voice, looking down and licking his lips. Steve knows that means his mouth is dry; he’s upset, or distressed, in some way.  
“Why would I?” Steve asks him, lifting a hand up to gently tilt Bucky’s head up, to look him in the eye. “I’ve got _you_ – and that’s something I never thought I was gonna get back. You’re not a consolation prize, and you’re not some pale imitation of the ‘real Bucky’ or any of that nonsense-” That’s all stuff Bucky has said, that Steve’s had to gently coax him out of believing over the last month, “You’re my friend. And I’m with you til the end of the line,” 

Bucky stares into Steve’s eyes for a long time: then, his eyes roam around Steve’s face, examining his jutting jawline, the cleft of his chin, his concerned brow . . . He licks his lips again, feeling a strange warmth in his chest that makes him feel a little bit sick – a little bit euphoric, too.  
But then Steve drops his hand from Bucky’s chin; he tucks an errant lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and gives him a gentle smile. Bucky smiles back too, mustering the expression up for Steve. He just wants to make Steve happy. 

Because over the last month, Steve has shown him there’s an alternative to everything he knows – to the violence, to the fear, to his handlers watching and controlling his every move. The longer he’s been with Steve, the more creative they’ve gotten in the drift, and in their fighting style: sparring with Steve, and piloting with him, he’s achieved things the Russians have probably never even dreamed of. 

When they drift, Bucky feels like he and Steve are one body: one mind, with one goal – but two hearts. They both beat in time, though. 

He can’t help the creeping sense of dread, though, that comes with all the love that Steve is offering him. Not only because he doubts that this depth of emotion he’s feeling is completely shared by Steve – but because every time he’s experienced something good, as far as he can remember, it’s been taken away. First his old life, with Steve – which he can barely remember – was ruined when his arm was ripped off, and he was flash-frozen in the Gulf of Finland . . . Then, every new memory that didn’t involve violence and blood and fear was forcibly snatched away from him, through torture and mind-wipes and conditioning and re-education. 

He tries not to think about that, though: Steve assures him he won’t let anyone hurt him. And he trusts Steve, now. Why shouldn’t he? He’s an ally, he’s a co-pilot, he’s – well, he’s the person that’s been the nicest to Bucky in his living memory. Followed by Natasha, and the others, of course. 

Steve makes him feel that strange warmth pretty much daily. He simultaneously hopes it shows in the drift - because he wants Steve to know how much he cares about him - and wants to hide it. His fear of rejection is strong, and he doesn’t want to spoil what they have currently: both for the sake of the drift, and piloting, and for the sake of their friendship. 

Honestly, Bucky doesn’t remember having a friend ever before: he never thought he could feel enough for someone to want to be their friend; their ally, their co-pilot, their fellow agent – sure, but a friend . . . He didn’t think it was possible. But Steve has shown him how. 

Steve’s shown him a lot of things: he’d probably hate that Bucky thinks about it that way, though. He always says it’s up to Bucky to decide things for himself – his likes and dislikes, the essence of who he is – but he wouldn’t even know he was allowed to do that, if Steve hadn’t convinced him ( _at extreme length_ ) that it was okay. 

Slowly, but surely, Bucky gets back some semblance of control over his actions. It’s not perfect, and they face hiccups every single day – but it’s worth it, for both of them, to have one another there by their side, ready to take on monsters the average person’s worst nightmares wouldn’t even touch. 

-

Steve wouldn’t think that he and Bucky could be role-models for anyone – but, when they head to Banner's lab for a routine meeting around six weeks after their first mission back together, that’s exactly how he treats them. 

“You’ve gotta give a presentation or something, Steve,” Bruce pleads with him. Steve grins, though there’s an undercurrent of disbelief in his expression.  
Bucky raises one eyebrow. “On what?” He asks suspiciously.  
“On you two! You’re just – unbelievable. You know, I talked to Fury the other day – I said, these guys – I think they’re _better_ than before,” Bruce gushes.  
“What? Steve asks, taken aback; still incredulous.  
“Always nice to meet a fan,” Bucky mutters under his breath. “Got any polish, doc?” He inquires.  
“Uh – yeah, sure, in the – in that draw, over there-” Bruce says, waving his arm at one of his desks, which is characteristically covered in wires and circuitry. He’s been working on upgrades to the prototype machinery that allows Bucky’s arm to be wired into Justice Inferno - Bucky and Steve both recognise the basic mechanical parts, strewn across the surface of the bench. 

“I don’t know, Bruce,” Steve says, folding his arms with a doubtful expression, “I don’t really think synchronisation is something you can teach,”  
“No – you’re right, but your techniques are! Like – I know you two work on the basis that Bucky uses the aggression, and you reel him in – you’re like polar opposites, but you work in exactly the same way,” Bruce explains.  
“I . . . Guess I don’t think that deep into it,” Steve says, scratching the back of his head. He watches Bucky from across the lab, as he begins to polish up his arm. He asked Steve if he had any polish he could use on it, once – specifically, he asked if he was _allowed_ to polish it. Steve had told him of course he was – and he’d asked Bruce for the materials immediately. Bruce had supplied them, and now every time they have to visit, Bucky likes to polish his arm. 

The look of calm on Bucky’s face, and the sense of _flow_ in the movement, is hypnotic for Steve to watch: he likes it a lot, because it means Bucky’s mind is peaceful at least for a little while. 

“Right, but I think – well, I just think that it doesn’t matter what new gadgets Stark comes up with for your jaeger – if the drift compatibility isn’t as good as it should be, then you’re in trouble,”  
“You rang?” 

Steve and Bruce turn to the door: Tony Stark sidles through, immediately picking up a bit of technology from the nearest counter, and starting to fiddle with it; tossing it up in the air with one hand, and catching it nonchalantly. Bruce bits his lip – _that gadget is probably worth thousands of dollars_ , Steve thinks. Stark always was one careless son of a gun. 

“Oh, and – with solo jaegers, the drift doesn’t matter at all – there’s no drift, so there are no drift problems. Cuts out the middle man, don’t you think?” Tony corrects.  
“Mr. Stark,” Bruce says, masking a sigh.  
“Dr. Banner,” Tony greets him, making his way over to Steve and Bruce. Bucky doesn’t even look up from his work.  
“I’ve seen the blueprints for your solo jaeger though, Mr. Stark – it’s tiny,” Steve points out.  
“It’s only for one guy, what do you expect? – I’ve cut out the extra _baggage_ ,” Tony replies, making a vague hand gesture.  
“What, like the extra pilot?” Steve says, sounding offended.  
“Yup,” Tony nods, deliberately misunderstanding his tone. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, your jaeger can’t fly, can it, Cap?” 

Steve shifts, huffing slightly. He sees Bucky smirk, without even looking up from polishing his metal limb – he can tell Steve is getting fed up with the billionaire without even looking. That makes Steve feel a little bit better. 

“And my blueprints are classified – you shouldn’t have seen them, only having the security clearance of a pilot, should you?” Tony asks.  
“Oh, being a pilot is beneath you? I thought you wanted to be one,” Steve says, planting his feet. “That’s why you’re developing the solo project, isn’t it? Cause no one wants to drift with you?”  
“No one _can_ drift with me. I don’t play well with others,” Tony says, with a smile designed to wind Steve up.  
“I can see that,” Steve says – it’s not the first time he’s met Stark, and it won’t be the last – but he usually comes away from their conversations wound up and feeling like he’s wasted his breath. 

“Tony, why are you here?” Bruce asks exasperatedly, rubbing his face with his hand and looking bored with the argument already.  
“I thought I’d come down here just to trash-talk your little super-best-friends special handshake,” Tony says sarcastically.  
“Neural handshake,” Bruce says frustratedly, and takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I'm busy, you know, Tony,” He adds, after a long period of silence in which Tony doesn’t answer his question.  
“Oh – I just wanted to share my new blueprints – scientist to scientist – but it looks like they’re just showing them to anyone nowadays,” Tony says, looking pointedly at Steve. “But I still want to hear you tell me how good they are, if you wouldn’t mind?” 

Bruce sighs again, though he smiles slightly as he does so. 

“Fine. Since you’re only down here once in a blue moon, I guess I can spare an hour,”  
“Perfect. A few hours – haven’t you two got some place to be?” Tony says, turning to Steve, and looking over at Bucky, who finally looks up. He gives Stark a death-glare, before looking to Steve; Steve nods, and he stands up, putting the polish away and filing out of the lab with a small _thank you_ to Bruce, who nods in return with a genuine smile. 

Bucky’s really come along since that first day in the lab, when Steve had to fight to prevent the Russians from wiping his mind. And that’s something to be celebrated, no matter how rocky the road along the way. 

-

Steve and Bucky are making their way to the training room for a sparring session, when Maria Hill accosts them in the corridor:  
“Barnes,” She calls, drawing both of their attentions, “I’ve been looking everywhere – I thought you were scheduled to be with Banner this afternoon?” She says, approaching them with her hands on her hips.  
“Sorry, ma’am,” Steve says sheepishly, “Stark kind of took over,”  
“Huh . . . I bet. It doesn’t matter – Barnes, the Director needs you,”  
“What?” Bucky asks, frowning and looking between her and Steve.  
“It’s your handlers – they’ve been in contact. They want to speak with you, to follow up on your report logs,” She says, her voice serious, and her face more apologetic than Steve’s ever seen it. She’s not an overly emotional person, but he recognises the nuances in her expression that mean she’s sympathising with Bucky right now. He remembers that same look directed at him, when he lost Bucky. 

Wordlessly, Bucky steps forward, and she leads him away – Steve goes to fall into line, and she turns back, and even more apologetically says:  
“Sorry, Cap – they requested you didn’t come,” She says.  
“Oh,” Steve says; the syllable feels like it’s been punched from him. 

Bucky, however, looks worse off: it’s not that he can’t deal with being away from Steve; it’s just that the prospect of talking to his handlers, after everything he’s been through here, and all he’s realised about his time in Russia – how awful they were to him, how wrong his daily life was, the sheer amount of fear and abuse he suffered without even realising it – makes him ashen-faced and wide-eyed. He looks at Steve, an expression close to pleading on his face; then, he steels himself, and turns away without a word. 

“Bucky?” Steve calls to him. He turns back slightly, as Hill waits patiently. “. . . It’ll be okay,” He tells Bucky. 

Bucky licks his lips, but doesn’t say anything. 

Then, he’s gone, and Steve is alone again. He hopes it isn’t for long.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! So you might have noticed the warnings have changed a little on this story - that's because of this chapter, which deals with issues of coercion and agency. Please avoid if you're uncomfortable with that sort of thing. I can only hope I've dealt with these issues (and all the other issues in this story) sensitively enough. Thanks!! 
> 
> Other than that, you all have my usual thankfulness for being so great, as a readership. Prepare for a lot of action in the next chapter. Cheers!!

There aren’t many pages left in the sketchbook, now – Steve’s stopped thinking of it as belonging to him, but Bucky told him he was allowed to keep drawing in it. He’s gotten better at drawing, again: one of the better things about the fact Bucky wears his hair up nowadays is that it makes him easier to draw; means Steve can see his face, unobscured. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to express how much he likes it – not with words, anyway. Maybe the drawings can speak for him. 

It’s pretty late. The alarm went off, earlier – but Bucky was otherwise occupied, so Sam and Clint got to have their moment of glory. Steve’s happy for them: he does feel like he and Bucky get the lion’s share of the fights, and therefore get pretty much all the gratitude, nowadays. But the thing is, without Sam, and Clint, and Jane, and Darcy . . . Well, they’re just one pair of pilots. They can’t take out all the kaiju. Sure, Russia have a programme – but they stick to the North Sea, mainly. 

If there’s one thing Steve knows, it’s that he can count on the KGB to screw SHIELD wherever they can. 

The door opens, and he glances up, expecting it to be Nat: but, instead, it’s Bucky. He looks slightly pale, and his face is blank – immediately, Steve senses that something’s wrong. 

But then Bucky catches him looking: his face transforms. He smirks, looking up at Steve with an expression he hasn’t seen in a long time – a daring, cheeky grin that tells Steve that Bucky’s got something planned. And, whatever it is, it’s probably not gonna be SHIELD-sanctioned. 

“Bucky,” Steve greets him, shutting the sketchbook and setting his pencil down, before sitting up. “What did they want?”

Bucky just shrugs off the question. Steve frowns, and climbs down to meet him, presuming that they’re going to go to Bucky’s room – when Bucky calls on him this late, he usually wants to have a talk about old times. Those are Steve’s favourite nights. 

But Bucky turns, and locks the door behind him. Steve frowns at that:  
“This is Nat’s room too, you know,” He points out.  
“Trust me, you don’t want her in here,” Bucky tells him, and licks his lips – before unceremoniously reaching for Steve, and pulling him in for a kiss that catches him completely off-guard. 

Steve’s eyes widen, as he feels Bucky’s wet lips against his own: insistent, passionate, and scalding hot. Bordering on desperate. 

Half the reason he’s so damn surprised is that – well, Bucky’s been blushing when Steve compliments him, and they’ve definitely been getting closer, and doing what could be construed by others as _flirting_ , but . . . Though he’s clearly very much attached and attracted to Steve, Bucky didn’t seem keen to get this intimate, yet – things are going slowly, and going well, as far as Steve can tell. 

_Shows what I know, then_ , Steve thinks – but he’s still very confused, and surprised, by the sudden change of pace. 

He hums slightly, wanting to break away from his friend to ask what the hell is going on – but Bucky pulls away first.  
“Steve,” He says, panting and bunching his metal hand in Steve’s shirt, as he lets his other hand rest on Steve’s hip, “I know I wanted you before,”  
“Wanted me?” Steve asks. He can’t quite believe this – sure, Bucky’s dreams used to involve going on dates with him, but – well, despite Bucky’s reputation for chasing both girls and boys, before his fall, his dreams about Steve were never quite as brazen as this.  
“You know what I mean, jerk,” Bucky says, going in for another kiss. 

He pushes Steve backwards slightly, causing him to stumble, unprepared for the movement: he stumbles back into the desk, never breaking contact with Bucky; a couple of things fall off the desk on impact, but they ignore them. 

“. . . I – don’t know what to say,” Steve says breathlessly, as Bucky kisses along his jaw. His breath hitches when he feels Bucky smile against his skin.  
“Speaking isn’t really the point, Steve,” Bucky tells him. His voice is sultry, and coarse – it sends a flush of arousal through Steve, and he realises that, despite being surprised by this, he can’t deny that he’s _really_ turned on.  
“If you say so,” Steve says, as Bucky goes back to kissing him on the lips. 

Despite being the one to initiate things, Bucky seems happy to let Steve do what he wants: his kissing is open-mouthed and inviting, as he takes Steve’s hands in his own, pressing them to his chest; slipping them lower, until he’s pressing Steve’s hand against his crotch.  
“Bucky-” Steve gasps. He’s no blushing virgin – but this is _Bucky_ , and – something doesn’t feel quite right. Something’s telling him to stop, or at least slow down.  
“I want this,” Bucky says, sounding insistent – but he isn’t looking Steve in the eye. He’s looking at his chest; he licks his lips, and goes in to kiss Steve again – but he pulls away, bringing his hands up and away from Bucky.  
“Bucky, slow down-”  
“I’m yours, Steve – I belong to you, right? – God, just – do whatever-” Bucky shuts his eyes, squeezing them tightly closed for a second, before his hands begin fumbling with the button on Steve’s combat trousers.  
“Bucky!” Steve says, catching Bucky’s wrists in his hands, “You’re not even-” He trails off, looking down. Bucky looks down too, then back up at Steve’s face – and, strangely, he looks scared.  
“It’s fine – just give me a minute,” He says, like he’s making an excuse. He undoes Steve’s fly.  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve asks; he’s not angry, it’s just that Bucky is scaring the hell out of him right now.  
“Nothing – nothing, I’m good to go,”  
“No, Bucky, you’re not!” Steve says, slipping out from between Bucky and the desk. 

Steve knows he isn’t comfortable: he knows this isn’t Bucky, right now; he’s sure this isn’t Bucky, because this isn’t Bucky’s idea of how to treat Steve – not before the accident, or after. He used to date a whole bunch of guys and girls when they were growing up, and he’d talk a big game about sleeping with them – _not in front of Steve, he didn’t want him to feel inadequate, but Steve heard it from their peers and colleagues_ – but Steve knows that really, Bucky’s idea of a date is dinner, and holding hands, and a goodnight kiss. He didn’t used to rush into anything. 

He knows as much, because he’s seen it, in Bucky’s dreams – in Bucky’s dreams of _him_. And this – aggressive and needy and impersonal . . . It’s not right, at all. Not for Bucky. 

“Don’t worry about me – I just want to make you happy,” Bucky says. He keeps his eyes squarely on Steve’s trousers, avoiding his eyes.  
Steve watches him for a second, just confirming his thoughts about how wrong this whole situation is, before pulling up his fly, and doing up his button. Bucky licks his lips, looking even more scared than before. Whether it’s fear of rejection or something else, Steve can’t say for sure. He thought he knew which way was up with Bucky, before – but the last five minutes have screwed everything up. Not because he doesn’t want what Bucky was offering – cause _God_ , he can’t deny that he does – but he can’t do it when he’s not sure Bucky wants it, too. 

He sits down on the bottom bunk, and gestures for Bucky to come and sit next to him. He’s sure Nat won’t mind if they just sit on her bed. 

“Bucky – listen to me,” He says, being as patient and stoical as he can, when all he really wants to do is tear his hair out. Cause what just happened . . . What just happened was so wrong, and strange, and not in any way okay. “. . . I can’t be happy unless you’re happy,” He tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bucky flinches slightly, and grimaces.  
“I wanted you before,” Bucky tells him, “I still want you,” He admits.  
“But you’re not comfortable, are you?” Steve asks. Bucky just licks his lips; he can’t meet Steve’s gaze. “What the hell is going on, Buck?” He asks in a soft voice. “You seem all kinds of . . . _Desperate_. And scared,”

Bucky looks up sharply, at that: the fear is back in his eyes. Steve knows he’ll probably see this moment in the drift, a hundred times over, tinted with red. Bucky just cannot catch a damn break.  
“Are you scared of me, Bucky?” He asks, praying to God that’s not what’s wrong, here. 

Bucky shakes his head, and gives an adamant, “No, Steve – I’m not scared of you – I could never – I-I . . . You mean . . . No. I’m not scared of you,” He says. But his voice is tiny, and shakes slightly towards the end.  
“Then what?” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“. . . Is this about something your handlers said to you?” He asks, though he dreads the answer. 

Bucky’s breath comes short: Steve can hear him wheezing, slightly – he remembers when he used to get asthma attacks, in high school; when he used to have panic attacks. Bucky had been there for him, through every single damn one – and now, he gets to repay the debt. He’s always wanted to thank him, and reciprocate – but not like this. Not with Bucky staring wide-eyed at the floor, eyes tracking things Steve can’t see, with his fingers gripping his knees in front of him like ten small vices. 

“Hey – hey, Bucky, look at me-” Steve is off the bed in an instant, kneeling in front of Bucky, getting into his eye line, trying to grab his attention. He lays his gentle hands on top of Bucky’s tense ones, and begs for him to listen: “You gotta calm down, buddy – you gotta breathe – please, just breathe, for me?” 

Bucky blinks when Steve moves into his field of vision, and focusses on his eyes: he spends more than a few seconds looking into them wide-eyed. 

Bucky mumbles something in a mix of Russian and English that Steve doesn’t quite catch: he identifies the word ‘ _please_ ’ in English, though. He thinks Bucky is begging.  
“Please?” He asks softly. Bucky nods – his eyes search the room, as if looking for the right phrases in English alone, and deciding on the correct words to use.  
“Wanted me to please you,” He says.  
“What?” Steve asks, shocked. “Who?”  
“K-Karpov,” He stutters slightly. 

Steve’s mouth is dry; it hangs open, a prolonged silent gasp that can’t even express the sheer level of surprise and horror that he’s currently experiencing.  
“W-wanted me to get close, to you – do whatever you want, make you happy – get some extra information – anything for the Motherland-” He tells Steve, his voice shaking slightly as he recounts what he was told.  
“Jesus, Buck,” Steve says, feeling like he’s had all the air punched out of him.  
“I – they asked me how close I was to you – I can’t disobey them, Steve, you know I can’t,” He says, “It’s hard-wired into me – I told them, I couldn’t help it – I said you make me feel . . . You make me feel _wanted_ , and _safe_ – and _home_ ,” He says. Now he’s started talking, he can’t stop, it seems. “They were angry – but they said they could use it. They want to know your weaknesses. They want to know how good you are, they want to know anything I haven’t told them – they _know_ I’ve been keeping stuff back from them in my logs that I send away to them, and they’re mad . . . They say I owe them, I belong to them, and if I carry on keeping stuff from them – they said they’d – said they’d-” He chokes slightly, sounding half way like he’s going to stop breathing, and half way like he’s going to be sick. Steve can’t bear it. 

“No,” He says – and there’s a level of determination and strength in his voice, which is uncharacteristically firm, though his features are soft. He moves his hands up to cup Bucky’s face, soothing his stubbly skin with his thumbs, “They won’t. Because I won’t let them,” 

Bucky looks into his eyes, and for a moment – _just for a moment, despite all the shit swirling around in his head, all the orders and threats and torture and fucking confusing feelings_ – it feels like everything is going to be okay. 

_Steve isn’t mad at him. Steve understands. Steve won’t let them do it._

“You don’t belong to anyone, Bucky,” He says, fiercely sure, but keeping his voice as quiet and soft as he can for Bucky’s benefit. He’s had enough anger directed towards him for one day. “No one but you,”  
“Really?” He asks – and he’s genuinely _asking_. He doesn’t know what to believe; whether or not he should obey orders and cause suffering, or disregard them and suffer. But he trusts Steve, through it all, to tell him the truth.  
“Really,” Steve confirms – and, for the first time since Bucky walked in the room, he smiles just a little bit. It’s a sad little thing, that comforting smile, but it means the world to Bucky at that moment. 

Tentatively, he leans forward, and presses a chaste kiss to Steve’s lips. Steve freezes for a second, before kissing back: it lasts just a few seconds, before Bucky’s leaning back; Steve’s hands slip down to Bucky’s hands, again, taking them and stroking knuckles that had before only known violence; showing them love. 

“I don’t think I’d mind belonging to you, though,” Bucky whispers.  
“I don’t own you either,” Steve says, missing the point. Bucky smiles at him – that smile that says, _you’re an idiot, Steve._  
“Not in that way, punk,” He chastises him lightly. “. . . You treat me right, is all,”  
“Someone has to. It’s what you deserve,” Steve promises him. Bucky grimaces.  
“I don’t think I do – I’ve . . . Done some horrible stuff. I’ve hurt people – hurt _you_ ,”  
“It wasn’t you,” Steve reminds him.  
“But-” He opens his mouth to protest, but Steve interrupts him –  
“Even if you think it was, you’re making up for it – you’re helping me save the world, Buck. Think about all the cities that would be gone, if it wasn’t for us – all the people that would be dead, killed by kaiju, if it wasn’t for _you_ ,” 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that; he only lifts his right hand from Steve’s grasp, and strokes it through Steve’s hair hesitantly, enjoying the simple, comforting contact like he hasn’t done it for years – and he hasn’t. Steve’s eyes flutter shut, for a moment, savouring the feeling – he wants to remember it forever. It feels like Bucky’s finally come home. 

“I really do want you, you know, Steve,” Bucky murmurs.  
“Yeah. You said,” Steve replies, “Just . . . Not on their terms, okay?” He replies.  
“Okay – okay, yeah,” Bucky says, with a definitive nod. There’s a pause, before Steve, says,  
“You want me to stay with you tonight?” 

Bucky just nods. Steve leads him out of the room, and into Bucky’s room; he’s going to climb up onto the top bunk, when he feels Bucky’s metal hand wrapped around his wrist. He stares at the hand curiously, and then at Bucky’s face. His co-pilot licks his lips.  
“Stay,” He begs. “. . . Please,” 

And Steve does. He makes a big show of an eye-roll, pretending it’s a hardship, and injecting some humour into the situation for Bucky’s benefit. After all, what just happened was pretty heavy – he can tell it really shook Bucky; he didn’t even try and hide it, which is really saying something.  
“Seeing as it’s you,” He mock-sighs, adding, “Punk,”  
“Don’t be a jerk,” Bucky tells him, as the two of them arrange themselves on the almost comically small bed: inevitably, Bucky ends up spooning Steve, holding onto him tight. Neither of them comment on it; Steve can remember doing this before, through necessity, with Bucky during their childhood. He hadn’t felt like this about Bucky back then – sure, they’d been best friends – it had taken him til the age of about seventeen to realise he had it bad for his best friend. 

Now, he finally has him – but the KGB have him, too. He can’t take Bucky’s freedom away, like they have: he won’t let Bucky do anything he’s uncomfortable with, no matter how much he truly wants Bucky, and how great it felt to make out with him. 

He wonders as he falls asleep, when young, rosy-cheeked Bucky started dreaming about going on dates with his best friend, Steve; he wonders when the Winter Soldier started to experience feelings for him again, and to what extent they tore him apart, allowing the old Bucky to seep through the cracks in his hard shell. 

He vows he won’t ever let anyone stop Bucky from feeling what he wants to, and doing what he wants. As long as he’s alive, he won’t ever let anyone take Bucky’s freedom away from him again. 

-

Panting and gasping, Steve wakes up with a start; he comes back to awareness, realising he’s not in his own room. But as his eyes adjust to the low light, he realises he’s in Bucky’s room – which makes him feel a little better. 

He’d feel better if his and Bucky’s rooms were one and the same thing, though. 

He turns his head to look at Bucky, checking he’s alright: he finds him staring back at him with a wary, wide-eyed look on his face. For a moment, Steve wonders if he’s forgotten who Steve is; if he’s wondering how some stranger came to be sharing his bed with him, pressed up right against him. 

Steve blinks, mentally shaking himself: his dreams had been full of distorted versions of last night. He can still feel the ghosts of imaginary hands pulling at him; can still see some helpless version of Bucky, pliant and blank-faced, with blood-stained hands roaming all over him, smearing him with their filth and corruption. The dream was intense – but what made it worse was that it was interspersed with images of Bucky from five years ago, and before. 

He’d felt hands, like insects, tickling his skin. He’d seen Bucky sitting back, letting hands pull at him and stroke him and manipulate him, not doing anything to stop it – seen him bleed, and bruise, and break under them, too – and he’d heard the memory of Bucky once telling him, 

_You’re real cut up, Steve –_

Then the hands came back, Bucky’s face uncaring – or rather, unable to care; his mind disconnected from his abused body, as those unclean hands touched him in a way that made Steve want to scream and cry and fight forever – 

_\- I sometimes think that if you didn’t have me, there wouldn’t be a single person in the world who understood you._

“Are you okay?” 

Steve glances up, and at Bucky’s face; he realises his eyes have been staring distractedly at Bucky’s chest for a few moments, as he recalls the dream in horrid technicolour detail. He notices that Bucky shed his shirt at some point during the night: he can’t see much detail in his torso, but he can see the very slight sheen of the metal of his arm in the meagre light from the hallway, seeping from under the door. 

“. . . Bad dream,” He says. Bucky licks his lips, steeling himself before asking:  
“What was it about?” 

Steve huffs out a tiny, humourless laugh.  
“You don’t want to know,”  
“I do,” Bucky says – and, tentatively, his metal arm crosses the small gap between them; he threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, comforting him. Steve doesn’t even flinch at the coldness of it. “I want to understand,” He adds. Steve bites his lip, as Bucky’s words from so long ago ring through his mind like a bell – _there wouldn’t be a single person in the world who understood you –_

“. . . They were touching you,” Steve says eventually.  
“The KGB?” Bucky asks, frowning. Steve shrugs, and places his hand over Bucky’s hand in his hair.  
“I don’t know . . . You couldn’t fight back,” Steve elaborates.

To his surprise, Bucky smiles slightly; even in the dark, Steve can see the sadness behind it – but it’s a smile, nonetheless. 

“Hey,” He says softly, “Fighting is what I do,” 

It’s a simple statement, but Steve feels like he could jump for joy, or cry – because, for the first time in a very long time, Bucky’s comforting him; trying to make him feel better, just like he used to. _Just like old times._

That, plus what Bucky says is true – despite what he saw of him before, obeying orders without question – the Bucky he knows is scrappy, and fights all the damn time. Last night was . . . Terrible, yeah. But Bucky fought it, in the end – just like he fought to come back from the brink, on their first jaeger mission together since Bucky came back. He’ll always fight, if he can, Steve knows. 

He just hopes he’s always able to, from now on. 

There’s a knock at the door, causing them both to flinch, and look at it:  
“Rogers – you in there?” Nat’s voice comes through the door.  
“Uh – yeah,” He replies, sitting up quickly – he hits his head on the top bunk, and hisses, before repeating, “Yeah, I’m here,” while Bucky sniggers at him. 

She opens the door, taking that as permission to come in: she switches the light on, and surveys two fully-grown men squashed onto one bunk-bed. Steve rolls onto the floor, picking himself up quickly. She smirks.  
“You feeling okay, Cap?” She asks, amused.  
“Never better,” He replies, slightly breathless, and rubbing his head where he bumped it a second ago.  
“I’ll bet,” Natasha mutters, raising one eyebrow and looking between Steve and Bucky.  
“Oh – no, no it’s not – we didn’t-” Steve blabbers, blushing slightly. But when Bucky joins him, standing by his side, and slinging his metal arm around his shoulders, he stops talking. He just soaks up the contact: the arm is stiff, at first, as Bucky tries to relax into the gesture; it loosens up, after a few seconds. 

“Sure. Well, it's 7:45 - there’s a pretty urgent meeting about saving the world going on in fifteen minutes in Fury's office, if you’ve got a moment,” She says dryly. Steve and Bucky watch her go for a moment, shutting the door behind her, and leaving them standing in silence. 

It’s then that Steve looks at Bucky properly, for the first time since he woke up: he always liked to sleep without a shirt, but this is the first time Steve has seen him without one in so, _so_ long. 

And boy, has he changed. 

Steve steps backwards and away from Bucky for a second, Bucky’s arm dropping from around his neck; he doesn’t mean to stare, but now he’s started, he can’t stop. 

Bucky was always a little tanned; he was lean, and fit, sure. But now . . . Now, he’s much paler, not having been exposed to much sun in Russia, Steve reasons. He’s also bulked up significantly: Steve supposes he only used any spare time he had – if any – to work out, and fight, and train, under the watchful eyes of his handlers. 

It’s only after a few seconds of staring that Steve’s eyes find the scars. 

There are a few on his chest, raised and even paler than his current skin-tone. But the majority of them are on his left, cutting across his left set of ribs, his left waist, and his left hip, where his trousers hang _. . . From the accident_ , Steve realises. _Shrapnel and kaiju claws._

Bucky’s left arm crosses his body in a shielding gesture, then: his left hand takes hold of his right upper arm, and he licks his lips, watching Steve warily.  
“Don’t,” He says. 

Steve blinks, and looks up at Bucky’s face.  
“Don’t what?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head slightly.  
“. . . I’m-” Bucky pauses, eyes searching the floor for the right words. “I didn’t really think about what I looked like before,” 

_Before I came back. Before I started to get to know you again. Before I started to feel for you._

“. . . Now, I know I’m pretty gross,” He says, and there’s a humourless laugh in the last few words that breaks Steve’s heart.  
“No,” He breathes – he reaches out; Bucky steps back, as a reflex, like they’re about to spar. After a few seconds, though, he steps forward once more, tentatively, watching Steve carefully all the while. 

“I didn’t mean to stare,” Steve says, and gently – _ever so gently, as if Bucky’s made of glass_ – traces his fingers over Bucky’s ribs, on both sides. “But you’re not gross, Buck,” He tells him, looking into Bucky’s eyes. Bucky’s expression is rapt, as he stares back. 

His breath catches slightly when Steve’s left hand traces lightly over a particularly large scar on his left waist. His eyes flutter shut, and he huffs out a soft breath. Steve watches him carefully, and asks,  
“Are you okay? . . . Is this okay?” He doesn’t care that they only have a few minutes to get ready, and get out of here – this is probably one of the most important moments between them since Bucky came home, and he won’t rush it for anything. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his voice extremely quiet. “. . . Shit. Haven’t been touched like this in-” He pauses, as Steve’s right hand circles behind his back, planting his palm against the strong muscles there, as his left hand traces upwards and lightly over the join where the metal of his arm meets his shoulder. “Ah-”

The breathy noises Bucky’s making right now make it clear what he means: he’s experienced no gentle touches, no careful caresses, since before the accident. It’s abundantly clear to Steve that the Russians _maintain_ him, rather than looking after him. 

Aside from that, they don’t leave any room for a relationship, or physical intimacy, in Bucky’s life: what Steve saw last night was probably the first time Bucky’s been close to someone in over five years. For a moment, he feels bad rejecting him – but then he remembers that Bucky hadn’t really been ready, and he’d been coerced into acting on feelings he hadn’t really been ready to express yet. 

He lets his hands drop away from Bucky’s body.  
“Steve-” Bucky breathes, his voice half-way between arousal and distress. It’s a strange mix, and painful for Steve to hear.  
“I know,” Steve replies. And he does – he knows Bucky likes Steve touching him, and letting him know he doesn’t care about his scars, and that he still thinks he’s a specimen, like always. He also knows that Bucky has a hard time accepting that type of care, though. 

Slowly, he dips his head, and plants a kiss to the join between Bucky’s skin and the metal arm: it’s soft, and careful, and just the exact antithesis of how his arm is usually treated by anyone who gets close enough to touch it. 

Usually, it’s being removed, for upgrades; the panels roughly opened, for routine repairs. It’s manipulated carelessly, with no respect, or thought about how Bucky feels. 

Steve respects it, though. He knows it’s capable of great damage – but also great affection, like when it was stroking his hair and comforting him earlier. 

The same can be said of Bucky, too: he's ready to do harm, but he's also got a latent ability to love. 

“C’mon,” Steve says, breaking away from Bucky reluctantly, and heading for the door. “We’d better get going,”  
“Can’t the world save itself?” Bucky asks, in a mock-whiny voice. _Just like he would before._  
“I guess not,” Steve says, looking back with a shrug and a smile, as he goes to pull on some new clothes in his own room. 

Bucky sighs loudly, and gets ready himself. He doesn’t even realise he’s smiling, now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the direction this is going in. Here's your obligatory reminder that I don't hate Russians *nervous laughter* I hope I can partially make up for this in the coming chapters. 
> 
> We're nearing the climax of this fic, now. I can only hope you continue to enjoy it!! And thanks so, SO much for all the support you've given me so far, your encouragement is really helpful and you're all the greatest. Cheers!!

Natasha wasn’t kidding about the meeting being urgent: they find a large crowd gathered, sitting on various chairs and sofas in Fury's office, each of them looking concerned, and muttering to one another quietly, for the most part. 

To Steve’s surprise, Stark is present: he’s the only one neglecting to be quiet, talking brazenly to Banner about the sheer number of weapons he’s managed to pack into his solo-jaeger. Steve rolls his eyes, and surveys the rest of the room: Clint, Nat and Sam are sat on one of Nick’s expensive leather sofas, with Sam sitting on the left looking between his two friends doubtfully, as they bicker about something or other. 

Bruce is looking mildly impressed with whatever Stark’s saying; the expression comes with an undercurrent of incredulity: Steve knows he’ll probably only believe what Stark’s saying when he sees it. 

Nick’s currently standing by his desk, beside which a pair of SHIELD agents are standing, setting up some kind of presentation.  
“Who are they?” Bucky asks him, keeping slightly behind Steve as they enter the room. Despite having fewer and fewer reservations around Steve, large crowds can spook him; new people who he doesn’t know he can trust are a problem, usually. He can never decide if he should trust them, or work out the quickest and easiest way to incapacitate them, if he’s brutally honest. 

“Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons,” Steve tells him. “Sci-tech – scientific research and medical support,” He explains.  
“They look about twelve,” Bucky mutters.  
“They went to the academy,” Steve tells him.  
“There’s an academy now?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow. Steve shrugs.  
“SHIELD talent-scouts the best and brightest – they’ve gotta keep up with the increasing kaiju threat. The younger they start, the better they can be, I guess,” Steve says.  
“. . . Right,” Bucky says, though he looks a little troubled. Steve recalls that Bucky wasn’t always as keen to join jaeger corps as he was; he might also have a problem with the idea of young people being drafted into a war, without their fully informed consent. 

Steve hadn’t thought about it like that – until he’d taken a moment to look at the situation through Bucky’s eyes. He frowns slightly, as they go to stand behind the sofa where Clint, Sam and Natasha are sitting. 

“So, are the wonder twins here gonna get on with showing us their science project, or what?” Tony says, addressing the director. Nick gives him the stink-eye, in return.  
“If you would all be quiet,” He tells them, looking around; everyone shuts their mouths. 

“Thank you,” Nick tells the room, “I’ve called you here today because doctors Fitz and Simmons think they’ve found some truth in some previously unsubstantiated claims about the escalating kaiju attacks over the past few years,”  
“Specifically, starting five years ago,” Fitz says, clarifying. Nick nods, and lets them take the lead. 

Fitz fiddles with the laptop he’s brought with him, commencing a pre-prepared presentation.  
“We’ve been working for years on the assumption that kaiju only come through the breach,” Simmons explains, as the large screen they’ve set up shows a large, bright picture of the breach, taken by a very brave photographer flying overhead. 

Steve notices Sam shift, slightly: the last time he was that close to the breach, he lost his friend. He reaches to squeeze his shoulder lightly, just for a second. _It’s not easy going back somewhere like that, even in your mind_. 

“They show up all over the place – remember those two, in Alaska?” Clint points out, nudging Sam, and looking at Steve and Bucky, who nod. Natasha prods him in the side, warning him not to interrupt.  
“Precisely!” Simmons says. “Well, recently SHIELD satellites have picked up a few . . . _Troubling_ things from overhead,”  
“Like what?” Stark asks.  
“Like this-” Fitz says, moving on to the next slide. It's a satellite picture, based on heat signatures from across Russia, in particular: one large spike, at the Easterly-most side, close to Alaska; another around St. Petersburg, surpassing that of all the other cities visible. 

“What exactly are we looking at, here?” Steve asks, with a frown.  
“Steve,” Natasha says, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “Do you remember what I told you when I came and convinced you to come back here? . . . About the Russians engineering kaiju?” 

Steve thinks back for a moment – eventually, he recalls what she said. He’d almost forgotten, in the midst of everything that had happened since that day, that she’d said that at all.  
“I thought it was kinda crazy,” He admits, looking between Natasha and the slideshow.  
“So did SHIELD,” Clint points out sardonically. 

“It’s true, we didn’t have any evidence to back it up – other than Ranger Romanoff’s word, that is,” Fury says, drawing their attention. “But when her allegations about Ranger Barnes turned out to be true, we gave the claims some extra attention,”  
“Which included the use of SHIELD satellites to find heat signatures consistent with kaiju activity,” Fitz chips in. 

“You’re not actually saying that the Russians are keeping live kaiju as – as _pets_?” Bruce says incredulously.  
“Not as pets. For research – and as training apparatus,” Natasha corrects. “What better way to make sure your pilots can fight kaiju than to grow your own as practise, right?”  
“But that’s – that’s insane!” Bruce says, looking utterly flabbergasted.  
“Maybe, yes – but all the evidence we have at the moment points to Ranger Romanoff’s claims being true,” Simmons says quietly. She gives Natasha a small, apologetic smile. “We should have trusted her all along,”  
“You’re damn right you should have,” Steve says, shifting slightly. He’s acutely aware of Bucky watching him with an expression he’d place somewhere on the scale between _thoughtful_ and _awed_. “She gave up so much coming here, and you decided to just ignore some of her claims, because they sounded too strange?” He asks. Fury glares at him, but remains silent. “So now we’ve got Russia growing their own monsters, endangering citizens. Sir, we could have dealt with this months ago, if we’d just trusted her,”  
“I’m not in the business of trusting people for no reason, Cap,” Nick says. “The security of this division, this _country_ , depended on me making sure Natasha wasn’t a spy,” 

Steve notices Bucky’s head dip sharply at the word _spy_. He stares at the floor, and licks his lips - his nervous tick. Steve shifts a little closer to him, but doesn’t let the point slide.  
“Meanwhile, innocent people could have died – how many of the attacks we’ve been to recently do you think are the result of Russian-engineered kaiju escaping, or being set free?” 

The room grows silent, as pilots, scientists and strategists alike consider the question: it’s plausible that kaiju can travel undetected away from the breach sometimes . . . But there’s no way they could get to the Gulf of Finland without SHIELD detecting them first. Which means someone put them there, in the first place. 

“You didn’t trust her at first, either, Rogers,” Fury says. Steve sees Natasha look down into her lap, obviously uncomfortable with being discussed so openly, in front of everyone.  
“And that was a mistake. Natasha is a brilliant pilot, and an even better co-pilot. We’re lucky to have her onside,” Steve points out.  
“But we can’t just believe everything she says, because she’s a good pilot – that’s not a guarantee that she’s trustworthy. It’s about time you realised that, Captain,” Nick warns.  
“Don’t hold your breath,” Steve replies, fixing Fury with a determined gaze, and refusing to yield. 

After a few seconds of tense silence, it’s Stark’s voice that draws everyone’s attention:  
“If the Russians are growing kaiju, then how come _Memento_ over there didn’t tell us about it?” He asks, indicating Bucky. Bucky looks like a deer in the headlights for a second; his brow furrows, and his wide eyes look between each of them in turn, trying to find an answer.  
“Cause as you so eloquently pointed out, Ranger Barnes doesn’t have all of his memories, Tony,” Natasha says curtly.  
“But surely fighting great big monsters grown by the KGB is something that would stick around? . . . Or is he just selectively remembering things, now?” Tony asks flippantly.  
“That’s enough!” Steve says firmly, fists clenching at his sides. 

Fury steps forward slightly; Fitzsimmons cast one another worried looks, their postures awkward, as they wonder when it’s acceptable to leave. Fury sees their expressions, and dismisses them:  
“Thank you, agents – that will be all for today. I need kaiju projections for the next 48 hours on my desk by midday,”  
“Yes sir,” Fitz says, hurriedly collecting his laptop up, closing it without shutting it down, in his haste to get away.  
“Of course,” Simmons adds, as she collects up her things, too. They file out of the room, Simmons giving Steve a small, bashful smile as they leave the room; Fitz looks worriedly between the two of them, clearly hoping she’s just being polite. 

“Ranger Barnes isn’t on trial here, Stark,” Fury tells Tony dismissively, once they’re gone.  
“No one seems to even question it, though. Isn’t that a little weird?” Tony asks suspiciously.  
“Not really, Tony,” Bruce says in a placating voice. “Drift technology is more like an art, than a science, in some ways – and human brainwaves are pretty intricate, delicate things-”  
“Yeah, spare me the ‘human brains are a work of art’ speech – I think Fury’s got a point, here. They’re great pilots, but what else have they been keeping from us?” Tony asks, pointing at Natasha and Bucky in turn. Natasha scowls at him; Bucky’s face is equally stormy, though Steve notices his breathing is a little uneven. Steve is reminded of Bucky’s words from before – _it’s hard, to know whose side I’m on_ – and his guilt about spying on Steve, and thinks that Tony is accidentally hitting every single one of Bucky’s buttons. 

Well – he _thinks_ it’s accidental. But knowing Tony, he’s testing Bucky and Nat, just to see what they’ll do: after all, Steve’s never known Tony to even remotely side with Fury before. 

“I don’t care,” Steve says, taking a step forward, in front of Bucky, and planting his feet. “I don’t expect you to understand this, never having entered the drift with anyone else – but in there, it’s not about hidden agendas, or countries, or even fighting – it’s about working together. You don’t just fight for your country – you fight for your fellow Ranger-” Steve pauses for a second, remembering the weight and truth of Bucky’s father’s words, sending his son off to join jaeger corps –

_“-before his country, before God, it’s his fellow soldier he fights for-”_

“. . . But then I don’t expect you to understand that, given that you think co-pilots are just baggage,” Steve says, quoting what Tony said yesterday.  
“Okay, Ranger – you’ve made your point,” Fury says, stepping in and making a placating gesture with his hands. Tony and Steve continue staring one another down, though – that is, until Steve feels Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. He turns around, immediately concerned about whether or not Bucky’s okay: but, rather than seeing him panicking or upset, Steve sees an expression of _pride_ on Bucky’s face. 

He’s thankful, and he’s proud of Steve, for defending him – just like he used to defend Steve, all those years ago. 

All of the anger seeps out of Steve in an instant. 

“So what are we gonna do then, sir?” Sam asks, wishing to move on from the argument as soon as possible; his eyes linger on Stark, an expression of mistrust on his face, though. There’s a clear divide, in the room, between pilots and non-pilots; those who enter the drift, and those who don’t. 

_Baggage_. That’s not how a pilot should refer to their co-pilot, no matter their problems or issues. They work together, and that’s that. 

“We carry on as usual – if there’s a kaiju threat, we fight it, and we save lives, regardless of where it is or who put it there. But we don’t let the Russians know we know about this,” Fury says.  
“More lies?” Bruce asks, with a frown.  
“You let me handle international relations, Doctor Banner,” Fury says, “You just get to improving the drift technology. Maybe one day, pilots will be able to read each other’s minds, and we’ll all be able to sleep better at night, knowing no one’s keeping secrets,” 

Bruce nods and, with a glance at Steve, leaves for his lab.  
“I’d better get going, too. Wouldn’t want to let my _fellow Rangers_ down,” Tony says sarcastically, mocking Steve’s earlier speech.  
“You’re no Ranger. Everyone in this room has lost more than you could ever imagine in the line of duty – I don’t think you’d even get out of bed to help another person, let alone go the extra mile like Bucky or Natasha would,” Steve tells him.  
“Bit rich, coming from the guy who took five years out to sulk in the mountains rather than helping out – while I was pioneering jaeger technology that saves your asses on a daily basis,” Tony replies, before leaving the room, happy that he’s got the last word. 

Steve watches him go, his mouth hanging open slightly; eventually he shuts his it, clenching his jaw in frustration. He looks back to the room, and sees everyone averting their eyes. 

Everyone aside from Bucky, that is: he stares at Steve, looking confused, and a little sad. Steve guesses he didn’t know, before, that he had five years away from piloting, after the accident. 

Steve sighs, rubbing his eyes for a moment, and trying not to remember how simple and boring and _lonely_ those five years were. Thankfully, Fury gives him a distraction a few seconds later:  
“Foster and Lewis are getting back to Stockholm in a few hours. Until then, Rogers and Barnes – you’ll be on call. Barton, Wilson – you’ll be backup. Is that clear?” 

“Yes sir,” Sam says, standing up. Clint follows suit, giving Fury a mock salute – but his expression lacks its usual spark of amusement, after the disturbing revelations he’s just heard. Sure, he believed what Natasha had been saying about engineering kaiju – but to have it confirmed so starkly like that . . . It’s demoralising, to say the least, to know that half the missions the pilots go on are the result of kaiju being accidentally – _or maliciously_ – released by the Russians, rather than kaiju coming through the breach. 

Natasha follows them, as they leave the room. 

“Sir,” Steve says by way of a goodbye to Fury, though he’s clearly not pleased with him. Bucky says nothing, merely nodding at Fury – it’s tough, he finds, to know that there’s still a base level of mistrust directed at him, and at Natasha, by most people (not including his allies, such as Sam and Clint – and Steve, of course). 

As they leave, Bucky trails slightly behind, and says:  
“Five years in the mountains,” 

Steve glances back at him, but doesn’t maintain eye contact.  
“Yeah,” He confirms quietly.  
“. . . I’m sorry,” Bucky says awkwardly. He knows Steve wouldn’t want him to apologise, but he hates the fact that he was, inadvertently, to blame for Steve giving up the life he knows he wanted since he very first saw a jaeger in action. Steve wanted to be a pilot all his life – Bucky knows that much, both from Steve’s memories in the drift, and his own extremely hazy recollections – and he almost gave up on that dream, when he lost Bucky. If it hadn’t been for Natasha, he might have never come back here; might never have piloted a jaeger again. 

Bucky makes a mental note to thank her for getting Steve back on track – both in terms of his recovery, and his piloting career. 

“It’s not your fault, Buck,” Steve tells him – he tries his best to believe it. 

It’s funny – as soon as he found out Steve had lost a co-pilot (even when he hadn’t known it was _him_ ), he’d known that he must have grieved. But he hadn’t realised what a massive effect it’d had on him: five years is a long time, to spend torturing yourself over something like that, Bucky knows (having been through five years of torture, too – though not self-inflicted). 

Bucky’s recovering, as best he can, with his handlers still looking over his shoulder. He knows Natasha's recovering, too, after what Steve told him about her (with her permission). He knows that Sam is, after the others told him about Riley. But he never thought that Steve – who’s strong, and gentle, and kind, and never gives up a fight – would be recovering, too. 

He feels a sense of protectiveness over Steve that he hasn’t truly felt in years bubble up inside himself. It’s just another thing trying to convince him he’s home here, rather than in Russia. Though the desire to protect Steve isn’t an easy thing to fulfil . . . He’s glad of it. It makes him feel human. 

“Breakfast?” Steve asks, glancing at Bucky, who’s slightly distracted, with the weight of the realisations he’s having about his co-pilot.  
“Uh – I’ll catch up with you,” Bucky says. Steve frowns, looking concerned for a moment; Bucky smiles, trying to set him at ease. He puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders, and says:  
“Don’t worry. Just want to talk to Doctor Banner about something,” He reassures him. Steve nods; hesitantly, Bucky places a kiss on his cheek, before they part ways, going in separate directions. 

Steve recalls Bucky drunkenly pulling much the same move – _hand around his shoulders, kiss on his cheek, whispering that they should go somewhere before unceremoniously passing out on Steve_ – and smiles to himself, brushing his fingers over the cheek where the memory of Bucky’s lips lingers. _I guess he’s got fewer inhibitions about that kind of thing, now. I always heard that about Europeans_ , Steve thinks – though he doubts Bucky witnessed much love or affection, in his time with the KGB. 

He disregards that thought, and heads for the canteen, wanting to eat quickly in case the siren goes off. He only spares a second’s thought for what Bucky wants to talk to Bruce about, as he finds Natasha eating alone at a table, and sits with her, taking the chance to catch up with her. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks.  
“Sit down, Rogers,” She says, with a smirk. He smiles, at that patented Natasha Romanoff lack of needless frivolity. 

He sits down and starts eating – but he doesn’t get far, before she looks him in the eye, and says,  
“I can fight my own battles,” In a matter-of-fact sort of way.  
Steve pauses for a moment, swallowing his mouthful of toast.  
“. . . You shouldn’t always have to go it alone, though,” He reasons. 

She maintains eye contact for a few seconds, remaining silent and pensive – then she sighs, and nods slightly.  
“Right . . . Thanks for what you said back there,” She says.  
“You’d do the same for me,” He says, sounding sure.  
“Oh yeah? . . . What makes you say that?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“You were the one who came and got me,” He says, “We’re co-pilots,”  
“Not anymore, we’re not,” She reminds him.  
“Once co-pilots, always co-pilots,” Steve asserts. “We’re drift compatible – you helped me out of some nasty scrapes. And I don’t just mean during missions,” He pauses for a second, before adding: “. . . I never did thank you for coming to get me, in the first place. I was in a bad place, I didn’t even . . . I would have stayed there forever, if it wasn’t for you. So thank you,” 

And for once, she doesn’t brush off the praise. She looks into his eyes, smiles softly, and says,  
“You’re welcome,” 

It’s the most genuine Steve thinks he’s ever seen her be: he detects no undercurrent of sarcasm, or hard wit, or cold, calculating ulterior motive. This is the real Natasha: she can be loyal, and she can be sincere and kind if she wishes to be – if the recipient has earned it, in her eyes. 

She’s a good friend. A good person. 

He just hopes she knows that, and believes it. 

-

Sure enough, it’s only around an hour later that the kaiju alarm goes off: Steve’s suited up and in the hangar in minutes. When he arrives, Bucky’s already there, though: he supposes it’s because Bruce’s lab is so close to the hangar, that he was able to get there much quicker than Steve could, from his room. 

Bucky’s the picture of strength and power, as usual: it always takes Steve’s breath away, to see him suited up in black, armoured suit in place, clutching his helmet in one arm. He watches Steve approach with a smile that he doesn’t even know says _welcome home._

Steve quickens his stride, unable to prevent a smile from breaking out across his face even if he’d wanted to. 

As he gets closer, he notices something is different about Bucky, though: he’s not sure what it is, but when he realises what's changed, his smile only widens – though he tries to hide it, not wanting make Bucky feel self-conscious. 

Bucky’s helmet no longer has the red stars on either side: instead, they’ve been replaced by white stars, surrounded by a blue circles, reminiscent of Steve’s own suit. 

Steve feels like it’s his birthday, again, and Bucky’s painted their jaeger: funny, how the simple application of some paint can mean so damn much. 

“Thought you said you weren’t sure whose side you were on?” Steve says, as he approaches, and points at Bucky’s helmet, deciding to address the issue after all. Bucky smirks.  
“Yeah, well – I’m sure now. Had to go through a lot to find my old paint,” He adds, nodding at Justice Inferno, indicating the red, white and blue flames. “I asked Bruce, who said Sam might know where they were, who told me Thor probably knew, and so on – so yeah, after all that, you can bet your ass I’m sure,”  
“So you’re ready to tow the line for SHIELD?” Steve asks, as they ascend the stairs up to the cockpit; Bucky trails behind him, pausing before he answers:  
“Hell no,” He says. “. . . I’m on your side, Cap,” 

Steve stops, and turns back to Bucky: he sees Bucky smiling up at him – he looks sure, he feels sure – he’s on Steve’s side, he’s Steve’s co-pilot, he’s Steve’s friend. 

_I’m on your side, Cap_. It’s probably the closest Bucky’s ever come to saying he loves Steve, out right. Aside from _I’m with you til the end of the line_ , of course. 

So Steve acts on impulse, taking a few precious seconds to cup Bucky’s face in his gloved hands, and kiss him like it’s going out of fashion: there’s no hesitation, this time; no freezing up, no desperation, no coercion in the act. There’s nothing negative about it at all. It’s a celebration, a homecoming – _welcome home, Bucky_. 

Then he makes his way breathlessly to the cockpit, in the knowledge that Bucky is following him – and that he’ll follow him anywhere he can, with a smile on his face, and a _give ‘em hell_ attitude. 

It’s not just like old times – it’s a little different, sure. But in some ways . . . Well, despite the fact they both resent that the last five years played out the way they did, in some respects, it’s better this way. 

-

Their buzz is ruined, slightly, when they find out that the kaiju they’re about to fight is in the Gulf of Finland. Not only because the accident took place  
there, last time – but because of the meeting they’ve just been to, regarding the Russians engineering and keeping kaiju, for _practise_. 

“You sure this isn’t one of the Russians’ pets?” Steve asks, shifting slightly. The drift has already begun: Bucky’s staring into it with a soft expression on his face – though it’s not a smile, it’s an expression of fondness that Steve could look at all day. It means Bucky remembers something – or, that he’s enjoying witnessing Steve’s memories, gathering them up greedily, wanting to remember everything he can about how they used to be, now that he’s decided _he’s on Steve’s side_. 

Right now, Steve’s considering that drunken night when Bucky kissed him on the cheek: it had been a week or so before the accident, when he’d been feeling like Bucky might actually make a move on him sober, soon. The way Bucky kisses Steve, with an arm around his shoulders, is reminiscent of when Bucky did the same thing earlier, before leaving for Bruce’s lab – but with a dopey smile, and hooded eyes. Bucky feels slightly embarrassed, witnessing the memory from Steve’s point of view, at how stupid he looks – but the feeling is outweighed by the warmth inside him, the likes of which he’s finally getting used to feeling, being around Steve so much. 

“We don't know. Fury says it could well be,” Maria Hill tells him over the coms system. “Fraid we don’t get to pick which ones we fight, Cap,” She points out.  
“I know. I'm getting a little tired of taking out the KGB’s trash, though,” Steve points out.  
“No you’re not,” Bucky says, smirking at him, “You love piloting. You wanted to be a pilot since you were _this tall_ ,” Bucky says, using his right arm to indicate how tall Steve was when he first got it into his head that he wanted to be a Ranger. 

Steve blushes slightly.  
“Shut up jerk,” He says, hearing Maria Hill sniggering over the coms at Bucky’s words. 

“Okay fellas. We’re gonna set you down,” 

Steve and Bucky brace for impact, as Justice Inferno is set down in the Gulf of Finland, just like she was years ago: it’s a grey day, and the coast behind them is obscured by a thick layer of fog, the lights of St. Petersburg barely seeping through it. But when the looming shadow of the kaiju appears, they can see it just fine. 

It’s huge. But they’re ready, this time. 

This particular kaiju is around the same height as Justice Inferno, with fists around the size of the cockpit. Luckily, though, it doesn’t have as many limbs to grab them with as the one they encountered during Bucky’s first mission back with Steve did – so they reason that defeating it will be a case of brute strength, rather than fancy footwork. 

“You ready Steve?” Bucky asks, the drift growing dark.  
“Let’s go,” Steve says, game face firmly in place. Bucky could laugh at how serious he looks – but he doesn’t. He knows he has to concentrate, now. 

Pretty quickly, they fall into their usual routine: Bucky’s memories of his training with the Russians explode across the drift, fuelling Steve’s fighting instinct, and giving him the sense of strength and power he needs to help them lunge forwards. 

“Charge your canon, Buck!” He yells, as he lands a vicious right hook to the creature’s face. It stumbles, screaming loudly, as Bucky does what Steve said. Steve charges his own canon, too. 

“Grab it!” Bucky yells – and Steve does. A memory of Bucky choking the life out of a kaiju before, in his Russian jaeger, blossoms in the drift, and Steve follows by example – he uses his arm of the Inferno to grasp the creature around the neck, trying to choke the life out of it. 

The left arm of the Inferno is stuck down by the creature’s abdomen, but Bucky reasons it’ll do enough damage to fire the canon now: he does so, letting out a grunt with the effort of it – it’s still not quite the triumphant yell he used to give, but it’s close. 

The creature roars in pain, as black blood sprays all over the Inferno; it shoves at the jaeger, sending them stumbling backwards.  
“Whoa-!” Steve can’t contain the cry, as they stumble backwards. It’s even harder to right your footing, when you’re sharing your feet with another person. 

But, luckily, Steve and Bucky’s synchronisation prevents them from careering into the sea: they right their footing, calming their minds in synchrony, as they prepare for a second round. The beast won’t last long, now: it’s bleeding black from the gut, and it’s flailing wildly at them with its huge fists. 

It gets one hit in, before Bucky and Steve can step backwards; the whole jaeger shakes, but the metal of the cockpit refuses to yield. They block the next attack, Steve using his arm of the jaeger to catch the beast’s fist, while Bucky fires his canon into its gut again. 

The screams are deafening - they aren’t perturbed, though. In their experience, that can only mean they’re that much closer to dispatching the threat for good. 

In the drift, Bucky’s memories of killing blows play out, one by one: knockout punches, and canon blasts to the neck, and kicks to the stomach that have flat-out killed the kaiju he’s dealt with. 

“Almost there!” Steve cries, charging his canon again. 

Then, suddenly, there’s a loud explosion: the creature slumps downwards, dead, falling to the sea floor. 

Steve casts a glance at Bucky: they wear matching confused expressions. _Neither of them fired their canons, then._

The coms system abruptly crackles into life:  
“Justice Inferno – Rangers, we’ve got a bogey – we’re not sure where the signal's coming from but . . . Wait, no – no, another jaeger – your five o’clock-

Almost seamlessly, Steve and Bucky turn around to look behind them: through the fog, a great shape looms: just as Hill said, it’s another jaeger. As it approaches, they can see the black metal of it, shadowy and matt like the metal of a gun; they can see the red stars, on the arms of the craft – just like Bucky’s prosthesis. 

Steve doesn’t recognise the jaeger. But, as the drift stains red with an intensity it hasn’t in a long time now, he gets the sinking feeling that Bucky does.  
“Bucky . . . Bucky, what is that?” Steve asks, his voice low and cautious. 

Bucky licks his lips: his mouth is dry, and his heart-rate monitor shows that his pulse is going a mile and minute. After a few seconds’ pause, he answers Steve:  
“. . . Winter Soldier,” 

The Russian jaeger wastes no time in charging its canon: it’s then that they realise it’s not just there to fight the kaiju.  
“Hill – is it possible to open up a line of communication between us?” Steve yells, as the Russian canon glows red, clearly still loading. The Russians are good – but they don’t have Stark’s technological expertise on their side, helping to update their weapons almost weekly.  
“I’m trying, Cap – hang on-”

The coms system crackles with static for a tense moment, before Steve hears Russian voices: thankful that jaegers apparently all use the same radio frequencies, he listens to muttered Russian voices for a moment, before trying to communicate. 

“Winter Soldier – this Ranger Rogers of the US jaeger Justice Inferno – we are not a hostile force – repeat, we are not a hostile force,” Steve says loudly and clearly. 

There are a few words of Russian spoken which both Steve and Bucky strain to hear – then, a voice asks in English,  
“Who is your co-pilot, Ranger Rogers?” 

Steve looks over at Bucky – he looks a little paler than usual. He shifts slightly, causing the jaeger to make a similar motion, but nods. 

“. . . Ranger Barnes,” He tells them, hoping against hope that they won't realise he means _Bucky_. 

There’s a moment of silence, then more Russian – quicker, and louder now. Steve doesn’t quite catch it, but Bucky’s eyes widen: he catches what they're saying, before the Russian fades out, and Maria Hill patches in with a _what’s going on?_

“Steve, look out!” Bucky yells. But it’s too late. 

Winter Soldier fires its canon directly into the starboard side: a direct hit to Steve’s side of the cockpit, blowing a hole in the observation window. Sparks fly, and reinforced glass scatters, as Steve covers his face with his hands, trying to avoid the brunt of the glass. 

Luckily, the jaeger is built to withstand force: Bucky wants to take a moment to make sure Steve is okay, but he can’t – he has to set about getting them out of here, _now._

“Hill, we need an extraction, now!” Bucky yells, charging his canon and getting a shot off in seconds: he hits Winter Soldier’s right arm, causing the jaeger to stumble backwards slightly. He knows the left is where the superior pilot usually sits – that used to be him, when he used to pilot Winter Soldier – so he has to get a shot off right away. 

“What the hell is going on?!” Maria demands to know.  
“They’ve opened fire on us!” Bucky shouts back to her, charging his canon again – but then he makes the mistake of looking at Steve. 

Steve is barely standing: he’s bleeding from a deep-looking cut on his forehead, and his suit is dented in several places, after being hit by the shrapnel that didn’t manage to stay integrated in the jaeger’s hull, with the force of the canon blast. 

The drift, rather than being full of his aggressive memories, suddenly blossoms with a memory he just _knows_ is his own – he looks at Steve, and he sees a skinny, sickly kid, after his Mom’s funeral. 

_He can’t find his front door key. It doesn’t matter, though – Bucky knows where it is. He picks it up, and hands it to Steve, with a consolatory smile._

Bucky’s mouth hangs open, as he watches Steve wince and draw himself back to his full height, looking slightly woozy and punch-drunk. Suddenly, Steve’s eyes widen:  
“Bucky-!”

The incoming blast hits them full force, right in the centre of the jaeger: what Russian jaegers lack in pioneering technology, their pilots make up for in brutality. More shrapnel hits Steve, knocking him out; some hits Bucky, but he remains conscious, even with his co-pilot circling the drain. 

“ _Steve-!_ ”

With Bucky unprepared and Steve incapacitated, the force of the blow sends them stumbling backward – but this time, they can’t come back from it. 

The jaeger starts to fall down, and into the sea: but Bucky couldn’t care less. He’s looking to his right the entire time, eyes fixed on Steve’s face, yelling his name repeatedly and trying to rouse him. It takes a few moments for the jaeger to fall, all of which he spends forcibly wrenching himself from the machinery, while red warning lights tell him not to. 

He withdraws his arm from the machine, yanking wires from his suit and rushing to get to Steve’s side; he holds his head, trying to protect him, even as the force of gavity does its worst. The whole cockpit tilts, becoming horizontal, as they land in the sea, water flooding in through the holes in the hull. 

But the only thing that matters is that Steve isn’t moving. 

He almost doesn’t hear the sound of Russian voices over the coms, before the drift fades out, leaving him to be swallowed by darkness:  
“Bring them in – it’s time to bring our asset home,”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this has taken me so long to put up - there's a big long list of excuses (I moved house, I had a housewarming party, I've been applying for summer jobs, that fact that this is _over 8k long oh god why_ meaning it took forever to proof-read, but apologies for any remaining mistakes) but I'm still really sorry!! 
> 
> Anyway. I hope you like this climactic chapter - there will be one more chapter after this, at least (maybe two). Thanks SO MUCH for all your support and stuff, you guys are the best readership ever. Cheers!!

Bucky sits and stares. 

His arm looks so different, when it’s not attached to him; when it’s simply an object, lying on a workbench, glinting in the white, utilitarian light he always associates with the Red Room (even when he doesn’t properly remember it). 

That same white light casts a ghostly pallor on him, as he sits stock still, surrounded by standing KGB personnel: it’s probably a combination of the lights, and his own anxiety. 

There’s silence, in the room, for what feels like a long time – but in reality, he knows it’s probably only thirty seconds. His anxiety ramps up, and his fear creeps up too, in those seconds: the longer he goes without knowing what’s going to happen to him, the worse it gets. 

The longer he doesn’t know what they’re doing to Steve, the more it intensifies. 

Then, the door opens: the personnel around him stand up straighter – he sits up straighter, as a reflex, though he still stares into space. Apparently, he never learned to disobey a direct order. 

Through the door strides Comrade Karpov, flanked on either side by two KGB agents turned jaeger pilots. Bucky doesn’t look at them, though - he's lost in his own thoughts: he thinks he can remember what they did to him, originally. He thinks he remembers drugs, and torture, and psychological terror the likes of which he always hoped never to experience ever again – but he always did, over and over. He wonders if they will do the same to Steve. 

Karpov approaches him, sizing him up: he stands tall, in front of Bucky, who knows not to stand unless he’s told to. He needs to remain subordinate.  
“Winter Soldier,” Karpov addresses him in Russian, finally, his tone clipped and hostile. 

Finally, Bucky’s eyes roll slowly upwards: he identifies the two pilots that entered with Karpov as Novokov and Arkady. All three of them give him looks of borderline contempt and disgust; the pilots remain by the doorframe. 

Bucky looks back down at the floor, but says nothing – he knows that, in the past, he would have addressed Karpov as his superior now, on instinct. But he refuses to do so, until his fears are put to rest – or, more likely, confirmed.  
“Where’s Steve?” He asks, his voice sounding much smaller and weaker than he’d like. He realises he probably should have phrased that more formally, but he finds that he’s incapable of caring. 

He doesn’t even see the blow to his face coming: he’s too preoccupied, thinking about all the horrible things they could be doing to Steve, right now. 

The blow almost knocks him off the chair: without his left arm, his balance is thrown off, and he takes longer to get his bearings and recover. He tastes blood, and it helps centre him, in the most horrific way, reminding him of his rage; who his enemy is. He looks up angrily at Karpov as he steadies himself. He notices Novokov smirk at his displeasure, looking down at him. 

“You would do well to be more respectful, Winter Soldier,” Karpov tells him, still speaking Russian, despite the fact that Bucky spoke in English; despite the fact that he understands English. 

Bucky rights himself, wiping at his mouth with his right hand; his glove comes away stained with shining blood. 

“I see my orders to remove your prosthesis were followed,” Karpov says conversationally, casting his gaze over to the arm, which one of his scientists is currently working on; the panels have been opened, and it looks as if something is being removed from it. Bucky frowns, as he watches them tamper with his limb, and licks his lips. “. . . Unlike my orders for you to tell us everything you knew about SHIELD’s operations,”  
“I told you what I knew,” Bucky replies, sticking to his story.  
“You told us some things, yes – but not everything. You didn’t tell us they knew about our kaiju breeding programme,” 

Bucky’s face drains of what little colour it had in it, as he realises that he’s been found out. He opens his mouth to tell Karpov he doesn’t know what he means, but the words won’t come out.  
“Comrade,” The scientist says, pulling a small, black device from the arm. Bucky watches, as he hands it to Comrade Karpov, who holds it up for Bucky to see with a cold, sinister smile.  
“A recording device,” He says, “A failsafe, in case your loyalty became corrupted by the presence of the Americans . . . Which it did, didn’t it, Winter Soldier?” 

Bucky bows his head, feeling guilty; he knows that spying on Steve and the others isn’t right, but . . . He can’t help but feel like a failure, and a disappointment. And with failures and disappointments, he knows, come punishment, and torture. He gulps, feeling a little sick. 

But he doesn’t let that submissive instinct take him over: he reminds himself that he can’t let Steve down, like that. _He’d be so ashamed, if I didn’t keep fighting. He fought for me. I have to do this. It’s only fair._

“What will happen to Steve, now?” He asks again, a little louder this time. 

Karpov chuckles, though it’s not a happy sound – it’s hollow, and derisive, and it makes Bucky flinch. He feels on edge, to be on the receiving end of such a hostile expression of humour. 

“I didn’t know my machine could experience affection – how touching. I thought I trained you better than this, Winter Soldier,” He mocks Bucky, as if he’s an errant child. 

Every time he’s called that name, he feels himself slip a little further into the murky depths of fear; he feels himself fall back a little more on his conditioning, sitting up straighter, and schooling his expression more. 

Karpov nods to the few personnel surrounding Bucky, and they salute him, before leaving the room. Arkady leaves, too, leaving just Bucky, Karpov, the pilot Novokov, and the scientist in the room. 

“Having spent time with the Americans, learning their methods and strategies, you are aware that we need to further our own operations to outmanoeuvre them,” Karpov says, fixing Bucky with an appraising look. “Officially, we are failing to do so, currently. The current Chairman has threatened to shut down the Red Room project – he does not know half of the operations we are undertaking. For example, the rest of the government is unaware that you were sent to America, and that you and . . . _Ranger Rogers_ are currently in our custody,” He informs Bucky, Steve’s rank sounding bitter on his tongue.

Bucky watches him, confused – _the government wasn’t aware that he was sent overseas?_

 _Then who did SHIELD make a deal with? . . . Was it just Karpov?_

“Honestly, they do not know your previous identity, Winter Soldier. They do not know the degree to which we have corrected your alignment,” He admits. “They do not know the degree to which we have _improved_ you . . . My department was hoping to show you off to them, once we finally had all of the component parts necessary,” 

“Component parts?” Bucky asks in Russian. He’s frowning – he doesn’t react, this time, to Karpov’s stern gaze.  
“You are a good pilot, Winter Soldier,” Karpov says; a slow smile breaks across his face. “But you are best when paired with your Captain,” 

Bucky’s mouth opens to ask what he means – but when he sees the calculating, smug expression on Karpov’s face, he finally puts two and two together. He doesn’t like the outcome.  
“. . . You wanted Steve,” He whispers, his mouth going dry; his eyes are wide, staring at the floor, as he lets the terror of what he’s done sink in. 

_This is your fault. You entered the drift with him again. You didn’t defend him well enough – you might as well have delivered him to them gift-wrapped. And now, they’re going to hurt him, just like they hurt you. He’s going to suffer, and it’s all your fault.  
All he ever did for you was good. And this is how you repay him. _

“Very astute,” Karpov sounds amused.  
“You – you can’t,” Bucky protests, his voice quiet.  
“It is not strictly legal – but then, neither was what we did to you – _for_ you. Do not forget all that you owe us, Winter Soldier,” He reminds Bucky. 

Bucky looks over at his arm, whose panels the scientist has closed: he doesn’t give it back to Bucky, though. He knows it’s because he’s being punished, currently – and that this is only the start of his punishment. 

“You can’t-” Bucky repeats, but Karpov interrupts him abruptly:  
“I can. I am in charge of this entire operation – and everyone within it. You are my property, and you will do as instructed,” He says, all trace of humour gone from his voice; his tone is cold, and vicious. In his eyes, Bucky sees an inhuman quality he himself has seen in the mirror: a haunted, predatory gaze; there’s something unnatural about it which almost frightens him into shutting his mouth. 

But he summons the courage to continue. He won’t stop, now. _You can’t let Steve down again._

“. . . And if I refuse?” He asks, trying to keep his voice level. 

Karpov smirks, at that; he turns around, looking at Novokov, who smirks back at him.  
“It is easy enough for us to re-educate you, Winter Soldier,” He points out, pointing to the side of the room that doesn’t contain the work bench – the side Bucky’s been trying to avoid looking at. 

For the first time, he’s forced to acknowledge the presence of something in the room that scares him more than his lack of an arm; more than Novokov, looking at him like he’s a meal; more than Karpov, reprimanding him. 

It’s the chair, and the apparatus, used for the painful mind-wiping and mental implantation processes he’s been subjected to more times than he’s capable of remembering. He gulps, as he looks at it; he takes a second to steel himself, and summon the courage to say:  
“I’ve remembered before, Comrade,” He shifts slightly, imagining Steve is at his back, trying to help him believe what he’s about to say: “I can do it again,” 

Karpov sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. Bucky fights not to react, in any way, and maintain the fight within him.  
“I should think a while in a gulag would do wonders for that misguided attitude,” He says. “But while you are there – well, granted he would not be able to synchronise as well with Ranger Rogers as you would, but Agent Novokov is more than willing to take your place, and – what would the Americans say? . . . _Break him in_ ,” Karpov explains, looking back at Novokov again. He all but preens under the attention, making Bucky feel a little ill. He wonders if he, himself, was ever like that. 

“Be assured that Novokov would be a lot less _affectionate_ with Ranger Rogers than you would be, though,” Karpov says; it sounds like a threat. From the sinister look of glee on Novokov’s face, Bucky can tell that it certainly is. 

“So I can either pilot for you – let you hurt my . . . Let you hurt Ranger Rogers,” Bucky catches himself slightly, not wanting further punishment. “-or get sent to a prison camp?” 

Karpov smiles. 

“I am glad you finally understand,” He says. He takes a step towards Bucky, reaching out to him. Bucky wants to recoil, and flinch, but finds himself frozen. Karpov’s hands touch the sides of his face: they aren’t soft, and gentle, like Steve’s. They are rough and insistent, forcing him to look into Karpov’s cold, dead eyes, as he speaks to him:  
“I am offering you a choice,” He says, again sounding like a parent; some twisted version of _affection_ laces his voice, though Bucky knows he can’t really care about him, as anything other than an asset. This is the longest conversation he’s ever had with Karpov – the most he’s ever spoken to him. 

And, besides – he already has a dad . . . _Had_ a dad – Steve told him he died. 

He died thinking Bucky was dead, while this man in front him treated him like a possession. 

Steve said that his father was a great man. A man of honour, and a role model – both to Steve, and to him. Nothing like Karpov. 

“Yes, you can be replaced – but you are valuable to us, as an asset. We have many plans for you – not just piloting jaegers. You’re a brilliant combatant – and a killer. I know one when I see one,” 

Bucky doesn’t like the sound of that. But he can’t look away. 

“You enjoy working for us, don’t you?” Karpov asks; Bucky finds himself nodding slowly, without making any sort of conscious decision to do so. “And you know you can only trust me?” Karpov adds; Bucky nods again. 

But he still can’t put that kid from Brooklyn, who was too dumb to run away from a fight, out of his mind. 

“What about Steve?” Bucky asks, again. He sees annoyance and anger flicker in Karpov’s eyes, but he subdues it quickly.  
“Ranger Rogers is a valuable asset, too . . . The process of mental implantation would be over quickly, he would not suffer,” Karpov assures Bucky. 

It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie; he has the mental scars to prove it. But Karpov’s voice is hypnotic: he’s followed every command from him in his life, so far – why should this be any different? Why should he fight him, now? 

_. . . No, not every command – you betrayed him, for the Americans. You betrayed the Motherland. Why did you do that?_

“He is undoubtedly an excellent pilot – and the two of you together are virtually unstoppable. That’s why we wanted you both here, working for us,” Karpov explains, his voice soothing. He pauses for a long moment; Bucky’s attention remains squarely on his face, and his words. 

“But if you refuse to help us, well . . . It would be a shame if anything were to happen to him, wouldn’t it?” Karpov says silkily. 

The words are soft. Karpov can’t possibly know the huge impact they have on Bucky, those few words – can’t possibly know how they just broke something inside him, making him snap. 

But he certainly knows it when Bucky’s eyes narrow; a sneer forms on his face, and he grits his teeth, baring them like an animal. 

Bucky shoots up from the chair, his right arm bolting out, and delivering a powerful punch to Karpov’s throat. Karpov’s hands drop from Bucky’s face, as Bucky wraps his right arm around his neck, turning him to face Novokov. Bucky knows he’ll have already gone for his gun – he gets a shot or two off, but it’s too late: they hit Karpov straight in the shoulder, and cause him to cry out in pain. 

Novokov’s eyes widen in shock: he can’t believe, for a moment, that he’s shot his handler. But a moment is all Bucky needs: he drops Karpov, snatching his gun from his holster in one smooth motion, and firing into Novokov’s neck, sending him down. 

He immediately makes for the scientist, whose eyes are wide and full of terror, as he scrambles for some sort of panic button under his workbench: Bucky strides up to him, pointing the gun squarely at his face, and saying in Russian,  
“You better stay still or I’m gonna put a bullet in your skull,” 

The man freezes, obviously.  
“Where are they keeping Ranger Rogers?” He asks, searching the man’s face for any trace of dishonesty when he answers:  
“I – I don’t know,” 

Bucky can tell he’s lying, so he shoots him in the foot. The man screams: Bucky glances at the door, hoping no one heard that, or the gunshots; if they did, then they’d be too late to stop him from getting away. _And from getting to Steve._

“Next time it’ll be your head, and I’ll find him on my own,” Bucky threatens him, pressing the hot barrel of the gun to the scientist’s forehead. The man’s eyes grow wide, and he curses in pain; the smell of burning flesh fills the space between them, as Bucky asks again: “Where are they keeping Ranger Rogers?”  
“Fifth floor! – The holding cells, on the fifth floor! That’s all I know!” He insists, tears leaking from his eyes. 

Bucky looks down at him, regarding him with disgust; but his searching gaze finds no trace of a lie. He presently uses the butt of the pistol to deliver a harsh blow to the man’s temple; he doesn’t really care if he survives it, or not. 

He drops his gun momentarily to pick up his arm from the workbench, and turns around as he sets about reattaching it. It doesn’t take much: the act of fitting what remains of his left arm into the mechanism is a precursor for all the other attachments to activate, latching onto his collarbone and shoulder blade, allowing the prosthesis to seal itself back onto his scarred skin. 

Novokov is still heaving, gasping with his hand covering his neck, trying to staunch the bleeding – even though he’s severely injured, his training kicks in, and his fight to survive is strong. But from the amount of blood pooling on the floor, Bucky knows he won’t survive – and he doesn’t care. 

Novokov fired on Justice Inferno: he injured Steve. Sure, he was just following orders – but that’s not a good enough excuse for Bucky, when Steve’s life is on the line. So he doesn’t have any qualms with watching him die in agony, gasping for every last breath. 

Karpov is groaning on the floor, face down: once his arm is reattached, Bucky picks up the discarded pistol, and walks over to him. He knows he probably doesn’t have long – but this part’s just for him. 

He turns Karpov over with his foot: the look of fear and hatred on his face is satisfying to Bucky. In his peripheral vision, he can see the chair he remembered being strapped down onto, against his will – he thinks he remembers the first time, though he can’t be sure it isn’t a false memory. 

He remembers begging, and pleading. He remembers horror, when he noticed that one of the limbs they’d strapped down had been metal; his own arm was gone, leaving behind only vague recollections of an operation; the sound of a saw, the burn of hot cauterisation, the stink of antiseptic-

Bucky blinks, reeling in his memories: he won’t let them consume him. But they’re still important, as he looks down into Karpov’s eyes. He’s glad that the fear he sees, in those eyes, is equal to that which he experienced at the command of this man. 

“Did you even use anaesthetic, when you operated on my arm?” He asks, keeping his voice low. Karpov just sneers up at him. “. . . I don’t think you did,” Bucky says, and slowly applies pressure with his boot to the bullet wounds in Karpov’s shoulder. He all but screams, as the pressure increases. 

“I’m getting over what you did to me,” Bucky tells him. “I’ll never be the same – you stole that from me . . . But I’m getting better – you can’t touch me now,” He tells him. Then, he leans in closer, pressing even more weight onto the bullet wound as he leans down closer to Karpov’s face. He presses the barrel of the gun to his temple, as he continues: “I was gonna make it quick,” He tells him, looking directly into those dark, almost black eyes. He longs for them to actually _be_ dead, rather than just appearing so. “But then you threatened Steve. For that, you get to die slowly,” 

He abruptly moves the pistol from Karpov’s forehead to his gut, and pulls the trigger: the bullet tears straight through where Bucky knows his intestines are, and into his spine. He screams, writhing in pain, as Bucky stands up. He surveys his work, and feels satisfied with it: from the look of Karpov, and the smell emanating from his wound, he knows he will die painfully, either of septicaemia or blood loss. 

He picks up Novokov’s pistol, and leaves without looking back. 

-

He makes the journey up to the fifth floor as swiftly as possible: though he knows these corridors, and this whole facility, he still suffers moments of confusion, in which he’s not sure which direction he should go in; he experiences deja-vu, which gives him pause. 

But when he’s able to shake off that sensation, he makes use of the training the man he just killed burned into him: the stealth, and speed, in particular. Though he has guns, he tries not to use them: he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’s escaped, and gone rogue, within the confines of the facility. More than anything he wants – _needs_ to get to Steve. He needs a chance at escaping. 

The fifth floor is three floors above the Red Room: he decides taking the stairs is easier than the elevator, not wanting to be trapped in any sort of confined space. The aim here is to escape, after all, rather than imprison himself further. He makes his way along the hallway, ducking silently into an alcove to let a pair of scientists pass him; he approaches the stairwell, and slips through the door, making very little noise. He knows there are cameras everywhere, but he hopes that – _if he’s quick enough_ – he can still get to Steve. 

As he travels, he tries valiantly to set his fears aside: despite feeling no regrets about the slow, painful death he’s just guaranteed the man responsible for keeping him from Steve for five years, and for torturing him, and for trying to erase who he was . . . He still remembers the feeling of trust he felt with Karpov’s hands on his face, as he looked into his eyes. 

It was truly hypnotic: it would have been the easiest thing in the world to just nod, and accept it, and climb into the chair, ready to resume his role as the Winter Soldier for Russia. 

But then something happened, to remind him that it wasn’t trust that he was feeling, for Karpov; to remind him that it was twisted, unhealthy dependency – brought on by fear. 

Karpov threatened Steve: when he remembers this, his rage is renewed, and he sprints just a little harder up the staircase. He is strangely thankful for that threat: it allowed him to break free, once again, from his conditioning; now, it spurs him on.

Now, he won’t stop, until he knows Steve is safe – until he knows that _something bad won’t happen to him_ , as Karpov put it. 

When he turns the corner, he comes across two agents, armed and coming towards him: with the element of surprise on his side, he thrusts out his left arm, grabbing one by the throat; he kicks out a leg, hitting the other one in the gut, before throwing the one in his grasp over the railing, and into the stairwell far below. He pays no attention to the noise of the agent crying out, or landing; as he sprints past the second, he boots in him the head hard. His head flies back into one of the metal steps, and he’s out cold. 

_I killed two of the most senior agents in this facility with one arm,_ Bucky thinks to himself, _I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let punks like you stop me from getting to Steve._

He reaches the fifth floor within minutes, and peeks through the small window in the door from the stairwell to the corridor outside: he can see two armed guards, in the way of the door which leads to the holding cells. Usually, this facility doesn’t have many prisoners: being the jaeger division, they don’t normally have any reason to house any captives. 

These guards, therefore, aren’t the most efficient, or well-trained agents: they certainly aren’t expecting to be attacked; they don’t even know anything is wrong, or that the Winter Soldier has escaped, after all. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, and bursts out, firing both pistols he stole from his captors in synchrony: the bullets hit their targets, dead in the centre of the two guards’ chests, and they drop down. He sprints to the door, and snatches a security key-card from one of them, ignoring his feeble attempts at pushing him away. He makes sure to kick their radios out of reach, so he isn’t disturbed, before unlocking the door and stepping inside. 

Steve is in the very first cell he looks into: he’s unsurprised, given the lack of prisoners this facility usually holds. He doesn’t waste any time looking into the cell; he just swipes the keycard, and opens the door, rushing to Steve’s side. 

They’ve got him strapped down to some sort of table: his helmet got ripped off back in their jaeger, and his armour is chipped and tarnished with the force of the shrapnel that hit it. But Bucky’s most concerned by the dried blood that’s clearly seeped from the wound on his head. 

Steve is staring up at the ceiling, looking out of it and most definitely concussed: the movement of his eyes is sluggish, and his mouth is moving, forming silent words. 

“Oh my god-” Bucky makes himself shut up, laying his guns down on a nearby table which, to his horror, is covered in discarded needles. He ignores them, for now, and undoes Steve’s restraints – just like Steve did for him, when he first arrived at SHIELD, and Steve defended him from one of Karpov’s mind-wipes. _Never again, Steve – he’ll never hurt me again. He’ll never hurt you, either. I made sure of it._

“Steve?” He asks, cradling Steve’s face in his hands, trying to be as gentle as possible while still rousing him. “Steve, it’s me – it’s Bucky,” 

Steve’s eyes slowly wander up to Bucky’s face: as soon as they see him, he pauses, sharply taking a breath; he smiles, looking ridiculously happy, and says, “Bucky?”  
“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, his eyes lighting up with the recognition he’s receiving.  
“You came back,” Steve says, deliriously joyful – and dopey, with it.  
“Of course I did – you’re a punk, but I’m not gonna leave you with these assholes,” He says, supporting Steve’s head, and helping him sit up with a grunt.  
“ _You know the Russians – fucking crazy!_ ” Steve says, laughing slightly to himself. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him – it’s the first time he’s ever heard Steve swear, that he can remember. Something tells him Steve was only quoting something that he said, though. 

“We’ve gotta go,” Bucky says, helping Steve get up; steadying him, when he pitches slightly, still not fully stable. “They’re after us – we need to-”  
“Bucky,” Steve says, panting and letting his head droop on his shoulders, the change in position clearly having taken its toll on him. “They gave me, uh . . . I don’t feel so good,”  
“What did they give you?” Bucky asks, fiercely protective but trying to be as calm as possible for Steve. 

Steve shrugs, almost knocking himself off-balance with the gesture. Bucky steadies him.  
“Feel like I just – got off the Cyclone,” Steve tells him. Bucky bites his lip, not sure what to do – but he realises there’s not much else to do, other than try and get away. 

“Alright, just – try and stand up, and do _not_ throw up on me,” Bucky tells him. 

Steve looks up at him through his eyelashes, and manages a smile, as Bucky helps him off the table. 

“Dammit,” He hisses, still letting Steve lean on him. “Steve-” He says, pressing one of the guns into Steve’s hand, “You gotta help defend us,”  
“Don’t wanna kill anyone, Buck,” He says, shaking his head for a second, but quickly stopping when he realises how ill it makes him feel.  
“Then aim for their legs,” Bucky tells him, with a quick smile, before taking up his gun. He helps Steve out of the cell. 

When they’re out, he notices the door to the cell block begin to close: _lockdown. They’re trying to trap us inside. Must not have kicked those radios far enough from the guards – or some surveillance asshole finally spotted me_. Promising to apologise for unceremoniously dumping Steve on the floor later, he breaks away from Steve, hurtling forwards and standing in the way of the door: he positions himself between the frame and the closing door, and uses his left arm to hold it in place. He grunts with the effort of holding it open, his eyes squeezing shut. “Steve-” He grits out – but Steve’s already shambling towards him, ducking under his arm, and slipping past with a fair bit of manipulation of his body. 

“When’d – you get – _so – God-damn – big_?” Bucky grits out, as Steve passes him by. Steve shrugs sheepishly, as Bucky slips out of the doorway, letting the door slam shut with brutal finality. He pants slightly, ensuring that his arm isn’t damaged; it appears to be fine, having been strong enough to oppose the door mechanism. He smirks at the thought that his captors gave him this arm; now, he’s using it against them. 

“Where now?” Steve asks, looking around warily, obviously expecting agents to appear at any second. Though obviously concussed and pretty messed up, he’s still trying to protect Bucky.  
“Just follow me,” Bucky tells him, “. . . I think I’ve got a plan,” 

\- 

Even if Bucky didn’t know his way around the Russian facility already, he could still have found the jaeger hangar pretty easily: as well as many, many signs pointing to it, the place is huge – it’s pretty hard to hide a place as giant as that. 

The journey there isn’t easy: Steve leans on him pretty heavily, just concentrating on breathing, and putting one foot in front of the other. That’s the least of their worries, though: the alarm going off means there are now plenty of agents out there searching for them. They’re woefully outnumbered, and the odds are well and truly stacked against them. 

But it’s not the first time the odds haven’t been in Bucky’s favour: no one could have predicted the situation he’s ended up in, and yet he’s still fighting. He’s fighting for himself, and his co-pilot, alike – just like Steve always said. 

_Steve’s still alive_ , he thinks. _As long as he’s here, there’s still hope. We can do this._

They emerge out onto the hangar floor: there, immediately visible beside the huge hangar doors through which the Russian jaegers enter the bay, is Justice Inferno. 

Both of them look upon her with shock and awe, for a moment – before Bucky tugs on Steve’s arm, pulling them into a hiding spot. They conceal themselves behind a huge stack of jaeger arm parts, tarnished and scratched and clearly for scrapping; Bucky takes a second to have a closer look at their jaeger, which is currently being guarded by four agents, one of whom is speaking into his radio. 

During the firefight, the Inferno was smashed up pretty bad at the front: but she never powered down, and she’s not beyond repair. The craft is standing of its own accord, now, having been dragged in by the Russians. By anyone’s standards, she’s a brilliant weapon: they wouldn’t have left her in the sea. It would have been a waste of metal and parts, if nothing else. 

Bucky doesn’t want to think about them planning to melt her down, though. He ducks for cover again. 

He takes a second to give Steve a onceover: he looks him up and down, and takes in the collected way he’s breathing. He looks as if he’s consciously trying to make the motion calm, and steady. _That can’t be good._  
“Hey – hey, are you okay?” He asks, his brow furrowing. Steve looks up at him, grinning wearily.  
“You kidding? . . . I can do this all day,” He mumbles.  
“You’re a punk,” Bucky reprimands him softly. “Wait here,” He says, ensuring Steve’s still gripping tight to his gun, in case he’s in danger of dropping it. 

He emerges from behind their cover, immediately putting a bullet in the brain of the agent speaking into his radio: he doesn’t need him calling in about the attack. 

That draws the attention of the other three guards: he manages to put one of them down with a gunshot, but finds himself out of ammo after that – he dodges the shots from the other agents, using all of his combat training to avoid being riddled with bullet holes. He leaps through the air, moving as quickly and efficiently as possible, as he makes his way towards them. He engages his third agent, sweeping his feet from under him with a swiping kick; he grabs him by the neck as he falls, using him as a human shield against the shots from the fourth agent. 

The agent in his grip fights back, delivering a blow to his face – but he’s had way worse, and he recovers easily, using the rage to fuel his fight back. In the midst of the action, he grabs a knife from a sheath on the agent’s belt, taking it out and swiping successfully at his throat, before throwing him to the floor: he discards the dead man, and searches for the fourth agent – but finds them nowhere. 

Suddenly, he’s attacked from behind: he finds a line wrapped around his neck; his free hand goes to try and stop it from constricting his airway, and he finds it caught up in the line, too. The agent behind him pulls tighter and tighter; he grunts, as he finds the skin of his neck burning with where the line presses into it, creating welts and abrasions that will stick around, if he survives this. 

He feels the muzzle of a pistol at his back, and hears the agent whisper,  
“Traitor,” 

He curses himself, realising why the agent’s fighting style is so similar to what he’s seen of Natasha’s: she was Natasha’s co-pilot. _Yelena – the other Black Widow._

The line pulls tighter all of a sudden; then, it drops away entirely, with the sound of a gunshot: he gasps as his hand and his neck are released from the stranglehold. Wide-eyed, he looks around for the shooter: he sees Steve, using both arms to steady his weapon; lowering his pistol and giving him a nod. 

He looks at the floor, and sees the agent bleeding from the leg, making a primal noise of agony. He knows that Steve is watching him intently, now, to see what he will do: he didn’t witness the brutality with which he murdered Karpov earlier – and the few agents he’s come across with Steve by his side, he’s only knocked out, or killed quick and painlessly . . . Steve watches him expectantly, wondering what he will do with the agent at his feet. 

He makes his decision: he boots the agent in the head, knocking her out. Steve makes his shambling way over, his legs still shaky from whatever they gave him.  
“You didn’t kill her,” He says, as he places his arm back around Bucky’s shoulder for support.  
“And they say chivalry’s dead,” Bucky comments sarcastically. Steve continues to stare at him, waiting for a proper answer with that expectant, reprimanding look he perfected many years ago on his punch-drunk face. “. . . She didn’t deserve to die,” Bucky murmurs, looking down at her. She’s losing blood, but he’s sure that more agents will be here soon, and bring her in for treatment. 

By then they should be long gone. 

“What now?”  
“There’s an emergency exit-” Bucky points to a green-lit doorway, “It leads to the outside of the facility. From there, we could make our way out, and try and find a safe place to transmit a message to Fury-”  
“Bucky,” Steve says. Bucky looks at him: his head is drooping, and his eyes have slipped shut. The drugs, combined with the concussion, and the exhaustion the journey here has caused him, have really messed him up. Bucky licks his lips, his mouth going dry, as Steve continues: “. . . I’ll just slow you down,”  
“What? – shut up, Steve,” Bucky tells him, shaking his head. 

Steve looks up and into his eyes: he looks broken, and weary, and tired; he’s not exactly Captain America, at that moment. He looks beaten-down and exhausted, and – unfortunately – in no fit shape to be making the escape Bucky just detailed. 

“Just go,” Steve begs him. “I’ll find another way out later,” 

Bucky’s horrified expression, at that, is partly the result of him remembering what Karpov threatened to do to Steve – _make him co-pilot for someone else, beat him into submission with torture and mind-wipes and mental implantation_ – and partly the result of the fact that Steve even _considered_ that Bucky might actually go ahead and leave him behind. 

Steve’s still trying to protect him: he acts like a shield, defending Bucky from the harm that Karpov and his kind want to cause him. Even now, he’s trying to protect him – trying to get him to leave. 

But Bucky won’t give up – he won’t let him down. It’s his turn to be the shield, this time. 

“No, not without you!” Bucky tells him, on the verge of anger and tears; his teeth grit together, and his eyes are fiercely determined. Steve’s expression is shocked: his mouth hangs slightly open, as his eyes search Bucky for any indication that he might be able to convince him to leave him behind, and save himself – but he finds nothing. 

_That’s Bucky, alright_. He never left Steve behind before, where he could help it. And he never will. 

He always comes back to him. 

Steve’s expression changes from surprised, to affectionate. “If you’re sure,” He mumbles.  
“Of course I’m sure,” Bucky tells him, casting his eyes around for a different plan, before looking back at Steve, “. . . I’m with you til the end of the line,” 

Steve’s eyes shut, and he lets out a harsh breath, when he hears that. _Guess I’ve gotta let someone carry me, for now – I’ve gotta let him be Captain America, for a while._

Bucky licks his lips – he’d love to revel in this moment, but there isn’t enough time, he knows. They’ll be here any minute. 

“. . . This is gonna sound crazy,” He tells Steve, who looks up again. “. . . Do you think you can pilot?”  
“Right now?!” Steve asks, looking taken aback.  
“Right now,” Bucky confirms, looking up at Justice Inferno, with just a hint of a daring smile on his face.  
“. . . I’ll give it my best shot,” Steve tells him, with a nod.  
“You always do,” Bucky says, helping him over to the stairs they have to climb to board their jaeger. 

They get a fair way up, before Steve asks him,  
“But how are we gonna get the hangar doors open? . . . How are we gonna initiate the drift?”  
“Leave that to me,” Bucky says.  
“Bucky,” Steve warns, though it’s not as authoritative as he’d like – it comes out a little whinier than he’d intended.  
“I’m gonna pay the control deck a visit,” He tells Steve, as they continue to make their way up the stairs. “I’ll get them to open the doors, and then I’m gonna transmit a message on a SHIELD frequency to Fury and Maria Hill – get them to start up the drift remotely,” He explains.  
“. . . You really are a soldier,” Steve says quietly, mainly concentrating on taking each of the many steps one at a time.  
“. . . Thanks, I guess,” Bucky tells him. 

They’re inside the cockpit within minutes: the place is kind of wrecked, with wires sticking out all over the place, and shrapnel covering the floor. There’s still water all over the place, and the windshield is smashed from the blasts that hit the hull. Steve bites his lip, as he looks around: it’s not pleasant seeing their jaeger this way. Bucky stoops to pick up Steve’s helmet, and hand it to him; his own is discarded towards his side of the cockpit, the paint chipped and scratched, but still remaining. 

"You think it’ll still work?” Bucky asks him – after all, Steve’s spent more time in the craft than he has.  
“Yeah,” Steve tells him, an expression of determination on his face. “. . . What do you want me to do?” He asks.  
“Wire yourself in – activate the jaeger,” Bucky says, helping him over to the starboard side, “And, just – try not to pass out. Stay awake,” He says.  
“I can do that,” Steve says, with a dopey smile.  
“You sure?” Bucky asks doubtfully.  
“Hey,” He says. “You’re the one who likes to sleep in, not me,” 

Bucky snorts at that – but his smile slips away, and he bites his lip for a moment, when he looks Steve in the eye:  
“I’m gonna do this, Steve,” He says, “. . . But I might not make it back – you ever solo-piloted before?” 

Steve gulps, his eyes wide.  
“I . . . Bucky, no-”  
“Have you ever piloted alone?” Bucky insists, his right hand on the side of Steve’s face. 

Steve pauses for a moment he knows they can’t afford to spare – he just can’t get over what Bucky’s suggesting.  
“. . . I had some bad co-pilots, after you – they did next to nothing, I guess it was like I was on my own,” Steve considers, before adding: “–but I’m not gonna-”  
“Yes, you are,” Bucky insists. “You’re gonna leave. If you see those doors open, and you feel the drift initiate – but I’m not back two minutes later . . .” Bucky’s voice trails off, as he decides how to phrase it: “Don’t wait up for me,”  
“I’m not gonna leave you again,” Steve tells him, his brow furrowing; his face crumples slightly, and for a second, Bucky sees a dumb kid who got himself beat up in the school yard – and behind a diner, and in an alleyway beside a movie theatre. 

He shakes himself, and says definitively,  
“Two minutes,” Before leaving the cockpit without any further words.  
“Bucky!” Steve calls after him – but he’s long gone. “. . . Dammit,” Steve curses, shaking his head. He bites his lip for a moment, looking at the empty space where Bucky used to be. 

But Bucky gave him a job to do. _I won’t let you down again._

He sets about gathering up all the wires he can: attaching them is a little difficult, though, what with the fact that the whole cockpit is spinning; his vision is blurred, and his fingers feel as if they’re working without his say-so. His digits are slightly numb, and his movements are uncoordinated: he feels like Bucky always looks, after a night out drinking. 

None of these feelings bode well for piloting a jaeger: sure, Bucky will help stabilise him, and keep him steady and _awake_ , but what if _Bucky_ needs help? 

_Bucky needs me_ , he thinks – just like he did before, when he wanted to give up on his efforts to get his friend back from within the machine the KGB presented him with all those months ago. When Bucky had seemed lost, to him, and he felt stupid for even trying – he thought to himself, _Bucky needs me_. He just has to hang on to that attitude, and fight against his body’s urge to collapse, for a little while longer. 

His vision keeps fading: he has to keep shaking himself, reminding himself he needs to stay awake, and wait for Bucky. The memory of Bucky’s hand against his face, flesh and blood and calloused and gentle and _real_ lingers on, as he attaches the last couple of wires to his suit. 

_But was it real, though? . . . Or did I just fall asleep?_

_Am I imagining this, right now? . . . I don’t know what they gave to me. I don’t know what they did._

_But I have to keep fighting. Bucky needs me._

With nothing to occupy himself, the fight to remain alert becomes harder and harder: his head nods, pitching forward as he stands in position. He doesn’t let himself fall, though: he won’t let himself sink to his knees, and give up the fight. He’ll never stop fighting. 

He’s jolted into full wakefulness after an indeterminate number of minutes by the loud sound of the hangar doors beginning to open: there’s a loud siren, and flashing lights, as the spillway behind the doors is revealed. The tunnel is dark, and leads out to the bay. Steve wonders if he’ll be able to make it through there, even with Bucky’s help – never mind alone. 

The radio crackles into life:  
“Steve? – Steve, it’s Bucky . . . Are you there?”  
“I’m here, Buck,” Steve replies. “Kind of wish you’d hurry up. I wanna go to bed,” He complains. He hears Bucky chuckle in relief.  
“Remember what I said,” He tells Steve. “Two minutes. If I’m not back by then, leave,” 

Steve doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to say he’ll do it; doesn’t want to lie to Bucky. He won’t leave without him – he doesn’t care about himself, at this point. He can’t, and he won’t, do this without his best friend. He loves Bucky, and he won’t abandon him. 

But he still counts two minutes. 

The counting helps keep him awake, and steady him: he looks out across the hangar, as he counts _five Mississippi, six Mississippi, seven Mississippi_ , and wonders how long it will take Bucky to get back. There’s no question of if, in his mind.  
_Thirty Mississippi, thirty-one_ – the count seems endless, but it helps distract him from his overwhelming desire to sleep. They really did a number on him. 

He jumps when the drift fades into life, in front of him: he should have realised it would work with just him, seeing as he’s wearing his helmet . . . But the idea of being in the drift without Bucky is abhorrent. 

It’s just his own thoughts, staring back at him: his own memories of Bucky, minutes ago, leaving him. 

It’s funny: memories of Bucky used to lurk viciously in his mind, ready to throw him off-balance, and drag him down, in and out of the drift – like sharp shards of glass in sand. Now, they’re calming: like a calm desert island in the middle of a harsh storm, each memory comforts him; makes him feel warm, and carefree, and relaxed . . . Each smile, and laugh, and happy memory lulls him into a state of relaxation, and happiness, as he recalls Bucky’s hand on his face; his quick words, before he left the cockpit. 

_. . . But what if that was the last time I’ll ever see him alive?_

That thought jolts him into wakefulness, causing the drift to bloom red, like spilled paint – the other thing that makes him come back to alertness is a familiar voice over the coms system:  
“Ranger Rogers?” Maria Hill’s voice patches through to him, fuzzy and obscured by static, but there all the same.  
“Deputy Commander,” Steve says, with a small smile, despite his situation. In the back of his mind, he keeps counting. The multi-tasking is exhausting.  
“Is the drift up and running?” She asks urgently; there’s no time for pleasantries, here.  
“Yeah – yeah, it’s running,” Steve tells her. 

_Sixty-five Mississippi – sixty-six Mississippi-_

“He’ll be back, Cap – give him time,”  
“Yeah,” Steve says, and bites his lip, struggling to maintain the count. 

He hears the sound of gunfire below: he looks down, and couldn’t be happier to see Bucky there. He looks tiny, from high up, but Steve recognises him the same way he recognised him when he first stepped off the Russian aircraft, when he first arrived back at the Shatterdome: his arm shines brightly in the lights of the hangar, glistening and flashing, as he runs as fast as he can for the stairs up to the jaeger. 

He’s doing his best to avoid the gunfire – but he stumbles, and Steve sees him flinch; he grabs his right arm with his left, valiantly continuing to run, though Steve can easily see that he’s been shot. 

“No!” Steve yells, though he knows no one can hear him – no one except the Deputy Commander; she’s now asking him what’s happening. 

He doesn’t have time to answer her, though. He knows what he should do.  
He needs to defend his co-pilot. So he charges his canon, and aims for the pack of agents aiming for Bucky, out for blood as they chase him down. The canon takes seconds to charge, before he’s aiming with extreme effort and care for the men and women who are trying to murder his best friend; steal him away, yet again – but for _good_ , this time. 

He cries out with the effort of the blast, still extremely fatigued: he lets rip into the crowd and, to his relief, the shot hits its mark. He watches Bucky shoot away from his pursuers, while they scatter, caught up in the blast. _He got away._

When Bucky bursts into the cockpit, he finds Steve on his knees, panting and slumped over, trying to remain awake: he drops to his knees by his side, seriously worried about what’s happening to him -  
“Steve?” He asks urgently.  
“. . . Made it with three seconds to spare,” Steve mutters to him, a slight smile pulling at his lips. Bucky laughs in relief. 

“You ready to do this?” Bucky asks, helping him up.  
“Let’s get out of here,” Steve confirms, with a nod, though he’s not completely sure he’s going to be much help. Bucky rushes to his side of the cockpit, gathering up his helmet before wiring himself in as quickly as possible. 

“Go!” He yells, the very second the last wire is attached. 

All around them, alarms wail, and smoke thickens: the canon blast started a few fires, which are eating up the hangar. They can see people rushing around beneath them, as they take their first step towards the spillway. They hear the sound of gunfire, as they take another step: some optimistic agent is trying to stop them with a handgun. 

They can’t be stopped, though. Even with Bucky’s right arm wounded, and with Steve fighting to remain conscious, they’re _synchronised_ : they take on each other’s weaknesses, and they compensate for them. They become one cohesive mechanism: left, right, left, right, until they’re in the tunnel; they can hear the sound of the sea in the bay, they can smell the sea air through the cracks in the windshield. 

Bucky shakes his head, trying to remain alert: Steve’s drowsiness is affecting him, too, due to their synchronisation; but he knows that the pain his arm – which is dripping shining red blood onto the floor of the cockpit, bullet still embedded – is probably keeping Steve awake right now. He glances over to Steve, and sure enough, he’s gritting his teeth: his right arm controls the right arm of the jaeger, and right now, it’s hanging limply at his side, like Bucky’s right arm is. 

_That’s one of their canons out of action, then._

But, as always, the drift works to distract them: it shifts Steve’s waning focus from the phantom pain in his arm, to the memories Bucky’s experiencing – once again, he’s being the more vocal one in the drift. As he carries on taking steps, Steve finds motivation in what he sees, as Bucky tells him determinedly, through gritted teeth,  
“We’re gonna make it, Cap,” 

_Birthdays and Christmases. Halloweens and New Year’s Eves. Candles, and streamers, and Bucky’s wide smile -_  
_“Aren’t you gonna make a wish, Buck?” Steve asks with a grin._  
_Bucky looks up at him, his smile less daring and devil-may-care than usual – there’s a gentle quality to it that makes Steve’s breath catch, and a warm feeling blossom within him._  
_“I don’t need to, Cap,”_

It only takes a few minutes of – admittedly slow – progress, before they step out of the tunnel, and down into the turbulent sea. There’s still gunfire behind them: Bucky guesses they’re deploying another jaeger, to chase them, and take them down. Glancing behind them, his suspicions are confirmed: the great Red Guardian is making its way down the spillway and towards them, catching up fast. 

Bucky grits his teeth, and tries to quicken the pace: but Steve’s doing well as it is, to be awake, and upright, and walking. Bucky gets a sinking feeling, as the coms system crackles into life: it’s not Maria Hill’s voice he hears over the airwaves, though. 

“Justice Inferno, this is the Russian jaeger Red Guardian – stand down and we will show mercy – if you do not, we will open fire,” One of the pilots warns them curtly. Bucky glances over to Steve, wondering for only a split second if Steve would rather surrender – but Steve shakes his head, as expected. Bucky couldn’t be prouder, or feel better to be back where he belongs, at Steve’s side. If they go down, they go down together, at least. 

“There’s no way in Hell we’re giving up, Red Guardian,” He tells them. “You’re gonna have to take us down, cause we won’t surrender,” 

“I expected more from the great Winter Soldier,” The Russian pilot says; Bucky sneers. “Very well – have it your way,” 

The canon hit comes without warning: they must have been charging throughout the exchange; stalling for time. The whole jaeger pitches forward, shrapnel flying all around from the back of the cockpit; they have to work to right themselves, but don’t fall. The readouts in front of them complain loudly, but neither of them pay any attention.  
“. . . That all you got?” Steve pants, his voice strained, but refusing to yield. 

“We’re just getting st-” The Russian pilot begins to say – but he pauses. Russian voices speak quickly in the background, going at a mile a minute; the inflection is confused. Steve glances at Bucky, who strains to listen to what they’re saying – they don’t stop moving for anything, though, always pressing forward; always fighting to get away. 

“What’s . . .?” Steve asks, his voice trailing off.  
“I think – an unidentified-” Bucky pauses, looking out of the cockpit in front of them; his jaw drops. Steve follows his gaze, as the coms system crackles slightly. 

ACDC’s _Shoot To Thrill_ plays out into the cockpit; Bucky looks at Steve in confusion; Steve’s expression transitions from disbelieving, to awed, to relieved.  
“Stark,” He breathes, “That son of a gun,”

Because outside their cockpit, hovering within striking distance of their jaeger, is some kind of craft that Steve’s only ever seen in blue-print form: the piece of tech Stark’s always self-indulgently called the _Iron Man_ suit. 

“Red Guardian – you can go ahead and stand down now,” Stark says, clearly transmitting to the Russians, too. “I’m here to collect SHIELD’s _baggage_ ,”

Steve and Bucky never stop walking forward: even when Iron Man swoops in behind them, opening fire on Red Guardian with abandon, at a speed it can’t possibly keep up with, they keep moving. Even when they notice a SHIELD aircraft lowering Falcon Strike into the Gulf of Finland ahead of them, they don’t stop walking. 

“Falcon Strike to Justice Inferno – you guys okay?” Sam’s voice comes through to them, concerned.  
“We’ll be fine as soon as we’re out of here!” Bucky yells, his voice strained. The pool of blood below his arm is growing by the second, and he has no desire to lose another limb today. 

“You ever watch tag-team wrestling?” Clint asks them.  
“Sure,” Bucky grits out, continuing to move forward, as Falcon Strike moves past them, ready to join Stark in his assault on Red Guardian.  
“We’ll take it from here, Sergeant Barnes,” Sam tells him. _It’s years since anyone called me that_ , Bucky thinks – in the drift, a vision of his own mortified face when he first heard the annoying nickname appears. _What?! Why does Steve get to be a Captain, and I’m a Sergeant?_ He’d asked.  
_Cause you curse like one_ , Steve had told him, clapping him on the back. 

Bucky looks over to Steve, and sees him smile doggedly. 

“Thanks,” Bucky tells him.  
“We could have totally high-fived them on the way past,” Clint points out, sounding a little like he’s sulking. “Would have been awesome,”  
“Man, shut the hell up,” Sam tells his co-pilot, a note of amusement in his voice, as they get ready to defend Justice Inferno during its extraction. 

The aircraft that dropped off Falcon Strike hovers patiently, as Bucky and Steve manoeuvre their way into position for pick-up.  
“You boys ready to get out of here?” Maria Hill asks them, as the aircraft attaches to their jaeger.  
“More than you know,” Steve tells her, though his voice is weak.  
“Prepare for extraction,” She tells them. 

Seconds later, they’re being lifted up, and carried away from the fire-fight behind them: Sam and Clint, with a little help from Tony, are still battling Red Guardian, helping fend the Russian jaeger off while Bucky and Steve are transported away to safety; fighting for their fellow pilots, like Steve said before. Bucky smiles at the thought; mainly, he’s just relieved that they’re out – _you’re out. You never have to go back there, ever again._

“What do you think, Cap?” Bucky says, turning to Steve, trying to ignore his bleeding arm and putting a brave face on things: “Did I do okay? . . . You proud of me?” 

Steve’s breathing heavily, clutching his right arm to him, coping valiantly with the phantom pain. He’s not used to a strong, sustained level of physical pain like Bucky is, after years and years of torture. His weakened, drug-addled state doesn’t help either. 

Neither does the fact he’s bleeding from his head, again, the jolt they’d suffered earlier having reopened his head wound as they lurched forward. 

The most troubling wound, though, is one Bucky hadn’t noticed til now: a piece shrapnel flying from the back of the cockpit, when they were hit by a blast from Red Guardian’s canon, has managed to embed itself in Steve’s back; even through the suit, it drips blood sluggishly, causing Steve to hold himself awkwardly. Bucky curses himself for not noticing (or _feeling_ ) the wound earlier, though he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it – his eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat, as he watches Steve look up at him woozily; pale and bleeding, he manages a watery smile and a quick reply, before he finally passes out:  
“I always am, Buck,”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient with the updates to this fic. Job-hunting is hard, and social occasions are time-consuming, unfortunately. 
> 
> There will be an epilogue after this chapter, but then that's it. This is the longest thing I've ever written, but it's been super fun to write, and you guys have been so incredibly supportive. Hope you enjoy this!! And thanks again :)

Before he’s even properly conscious, Steve becomes vaguely aware of two things: one is some soul music playing very quietly somewhere on his left. The other is a person, sitting on his right: he notes their presence, despite the fact they’re mainly still, from the occasional sound of a page being turned. The person is reading. 

It takes him an indeterminate amount of time (could be seconds, minutes, hours) to come back to himself, and begin to think straight: before that, it’s a little like he’s floating – he’s not fully aware, and his head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool. He’s unaware of what he should be doing; far from remembering any problems he had before, he doesn’t even realise he has problems at the moment. 

The light in the room gives the space behind his eyelids a yellowish hue: it’s warm, and comforting. But he’s aware of a dull ache, after he’s registered the music and the person beside him, that makes his brow furrow, and his eyes roll around beneath their lids, searching for a source for the pain. 

_Was I shot? . . . Was I shot in the arm?_ His left arm cramps, and but his right arm feels numb – he knows the former is psychological, but the latter _. . . No, I wasn’t the one shot in the arm. That was Bucky. We shared the pain._

_. . . Bucky!_

His eyes open, and he takes a deep breath, feeling flustered and alert all of a sudden. Though his eyelids droop almost comically, his eyes are determined to seek out answers to the questions he suddenly realises he needs to ask. He opens his mouth, but only croaks slightly – his mouth is dry, and he ends up coughing. 

He notes happily that the person at his bedside is Sam: he’s reading one of the comic books that Steve knows Clint leant him, with an expression of light amusement. When he hears Steve become distressed, he looks up, eyebrows raised slightly. When he sees that Steve is finally awake, he sets the book on the table beside him, and grabs a cup of water from it. 

“Alright, man – take it easy,” He tells Steve, who shifts slightly, sitting up a bit to accept the drink. His arms feel a little weak, in addition to the left one cramping, but he manages to hold the small cup.  
“No sudden movements, alright?” Sam tells him. Steve casts him a confused glance as he drinks. “You’ve got stitches, in your back. Some of the neatest I’ve seen, though – Dr. Simmons has a bit of a thing for you, I think. Tried her best to get you looking good as new,”  
“Dr. Simmons?” Steve asks, slightly disorientated. “. . . Stitches?” He asks, catching up. He looks down, and sees a large dressing on his left hand side.  
“Yeah – you’re damn lucky, Cap. A little to the right, and you’d have a perforated kidney, apparently,” Sam tells him, though he smiles through it.  
“. . . Yeah. Lucky,” Steve repeats quietly, setting the cup down, and staring at it, feeling slightly dazed.  
“. . . You alright?” Sam asks him, frowning slightly. “They said you might be a little out of it from the pain meds,” He adds. Steve nods, before frowning himself.  
“Sam, where’s – uh . . . ” He tries to recall anything after getting shot down in the Gulf of Finland, and finds he’s only got fragments left. He remembers piloting again, for a little while . . . Bucky got shot, he remembers. “. . . Where’s Bucky? Is he okay?” Steve asks, bracing himself for bad news.  
“He’s just gone out to get something to eat. He’s been here going on 36 hours straight. Nat had to turf him out bodily,”  
“She did?” Steve asks, smiling fondly.  
“Yeah – wish you coulda seen it. Always knew she was strong, but seriously – I’ve never seen such a deadly guy so terrified before,” 

Steve chuckles, shifting slightly. He looks down at his body: he appears unharmed, aside from the dressing on his left back, obviously covering up the stiches from the shrapnel wound. He feels his face, recalling that he got a cut there before they got captured – and, yes, there are stitches there, in his forehead, covered with a bandage. He knows for certain there will be tufts of hair sticking out at all angles, but he doesn’t care – he’s lucky to be alive, right now. 

“. . . He didn’t leave you for a second, before,” Sam tells Steve, his voice quiet. He still smiles, but it’s a toned-down version of his usually cheeky expression, when he’s talking to Steve – he looks down at his hands, as he talks, and Steve listens intently. “. . . You really had us worried, there, for a bit. You lost a lot of blood, and Bucky, well, he . . . He kept saying how he should’ve got you out some other way, or that it was his fault, or whatever . . .” He trails off slightly, biting his lip for a second, and looking up at Steve. “He was real cut up, Cap. You know, before – before, I was worried he was gonna really hurt you,” Sam says. There’s a long pause – they make eye contact, and it becomes clear that Sam doesn’t just mean physically. “But these last two days . . .” He shakes his head, and shrugs, looking pretty amazed at the thought of it. “. . . I think he’s something like the guy he was before. He even looks the same,”  
“How do you mean?” Steve asks, feeling much more alert now.  
“Well, he gets that pinched little look he does, whenever you do something dumb-” Sam makes a mock expression, that makes Steve chuckle, “. . . Then there’s the hair,”  
“He cut it off?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.  
“Yeah. He did it just in there-” Sam nods at the bathroom connected to the room. It’s standard for the medical wing of the Shatterdome to have adjoining bathrooms, for ease of recovery. This place doesn’t see a lot of action, given that there aren’t that many pilots nowadays – and there are even fewer accidents worthy of medical treatment. “-Nat caught him just hacking it off. She cut it for him,”  
“What a punk,” Steve mutters. “Remind me to thank her for looking after him,” Sam nods, and he adds, “. . . And, uh – thanks for the music, and sitting with me,” He adds.  
“Nah, it’s cool – I mean, gotta give Barnes a break, right?” Sam says, waving his thanks away. 

There’s a pause, in which Steve casts his eyes around the room: he notices one of his own standard SHIELD-issue sweatshirts on the chair on the other side of the bed to Sam. It looks fresh worn, though Steve doesn’t remember wearing it. 

He smiles a little, when he realises Bucky must have gone looking for it – or, someone brought it here, for him. 

“We didn’t know what to think when you went missing,” Sam says.  
“What happened?” Steve asks, frowning.  
“You don’t remember?” Sam asks curiously. Steve shakes his head. “Well, you’ll have to ask Bucky what happened inside that place – all I know is, we were on call and ready to go get you at any time, from the second you went off the radar – then, we get this call from the Russians – only, it’s not the Russians, it’s Sergeant Barnes,” Sam explains. Steve smirks at the nickname. “He’s got some dumbass plan to use your jaeger to get outta the facility, and back into the bay. So, me and Clint went to go save your ass – and Stark, that SOB, decided he was coming along,”  
“Tony?” Steve asks, incredulously.  
“It’s a shame you don’t remember – he got his Iron Man on. Always knew he was a show-off, but-” Sam makes a gesture with his hands that translates vaguely to, _that was probably the biggest piece of exhibitionism I’ve ever seen_. Steve smiles again – it’s fuzzy, but he thinks he remembers flashes of red and gold metal. _Tony’s tiny jaeger._

“You guys piloted out – the Russian jaeger Red Guardian fired on you, so we decommissioned it. Forcefully,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. Steve nods his thanks. “You got hit – you got brought here for surgery almost two days ago, and you’ve been resting up ever since,” 

“. . . Busy two days,” Steve understates.  
“ _Hell_ yeah,” Sam agrees, handing Steve the cup of water again. Steve thanks him quietly – he’d been wanting to grab it again, but wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop his arms from shaking. It’s a combination of the analgesic drugs he’s on, the pain his left arm is in, and his exhaustion. 

“You and Clint do okay? – and, uh, Stark?” Steve asks, adding Tony’s name hastily – he’s still kind of unable to believe that Tony came to help them, after being so dismissive about teams of co-pilots before. Sam waves his concerns away.  
“Sure. That old jaeger was running canons five generations behind ours – it’s not going anywhere for about a year, Stark thinks . . . And Falcon Strike was fine – Thor got her good as new within a day. Didn’t even need a new paint job,”  
“That’s great – sounds textbook,” Steve comments. Sam raises one eyebrow.  
“Sure, if you call breaking your buddies out of a Russian facility in a giant robot textbook,” Sam says sarcastically. “Why did they take you in, in the first place? . . . What were they gonna do with you?” Sam asks, trying to keep his tone light – but Steve can hear the fear, concern and grim curiosity in his voice.  
“. . . Honestly, I have no idea,” Steve says apologetically. “I don’t really remember it. I wish I knew,” He comments.  
“. . . Yeah, I’m not sure you do,” Sam says quietly, with a grimace. “Bucky hasn’t spoken about it to anyone, yet, that I know about – he looked shaken up, though,” He adds, clearly emphasising to Steve how upset Bucky was by the whole incident, to prepare him. 

Steve frowns, and bites his lip – he doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“Anyway,” Sam says, changing the subject, “Taking down Red Guardian took about twenty minutes – and before you say anything, yeah, yeah – I know you and Sergeant Barnes coulda probably taken it down in ten,” He says, his tone joking; Steve chuckles, as he adds, “What can I say – we do what you do, only slower,”  
“Not much slower,” Steve points out, trying to be polite.  
“Whatever, Cap,” Sam says. “At least I’ve got good music taste to make up for it,” Sam points out. 

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Sam looks questioningly at Steve, who nods -  
“Come in,” Sam tells the person at the door; it opens. 

Bucky’s standing there, and it’s almost enough to make Steve’s eyes well up with tears: he’s got dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his hair is a little messier and longer than he used to wear it, sticking up in all directions – but he looks so much more like he used to, now. He’s wearing combat trousers and unlaced boots, like he used to, but now the difference is that his customary black t-shirt shows off his metal arm, which is covered in scuffs and scratches, but still shines in the yellow light. 

He looks older, Steve thinks: not the lines of his face, just the way the anxiety hangs off him like ill-fitting clothes; the way exhaustion gives him a ghostly pallor, complete with grey skin and 5-o’clock-shadow. 

But Steve watches, and is delighted, as that sallowness melts away to reveal the Bucky he knows has always been hiding away, just beneath the surface, all along – even during his time thinking he was nothing more than the Winter Soldier. His face lights up, as he sees Steve, and he smiles widely, with that same cheeky edge that Steve always loved. 

“Steve,” He says, and Steve watches him become younger.  
“Hey, Buck,” Steve replies, his response massively understated.  
“I’m gonna, uh – go and see how the repairs on the Inferno are getting on. Get a report sorted for you two,” Sam tells them, rising from the visitor’s chair, and making his way out to give them some privacy.  
“Thanks, Sam,” Steve says.  
“Yeah – yeah, thanks,” Bucky says hurriedly, waiting for Sam to shut the door behind him, before turning to Steve.

He licks his lips, and looks Steve up and down: Steve thinks he looks a little nervous, as he surveys him for injuries for what must be the millionth time, in the period he’s been waiting with Steve since his surgery. 

Bucky approaches slowly: Steve notes that he has a bandage around the top of his right arm.  
“You okay, there?” Steve asks, nodding at Bucky’s injury. Bucky gulps; his eyes are rimmed with red, Steve can see, as he gets closer.  
“Yeah, just a flesh wound,” Bucky tells him dismissively. Steve accepts it – not because he thinks the injury is nothing to worry about, but because he knows Bucky likes to deal with that kind of thing stoically; he’s got a good range of mobility, as well, by the looks of it. He doesn’t want to make Bucky feel even more uncomfortable than he clearly feels already. 

“. . . What’s up?” Steve asks, frowning slightly – but despite his misgivings, he can’t keep a small smile off his face, just seeing Bucky here, and alive, and well. He thought they were both dead, for sure, when they were hit in the Gulf of Finland. 

Bucky swallows again; it almost looks like it hurts him to look at Steve. He bites his lip, as he reaches the bedside, looking down at his co-pilot and trying to remain blank-faced. He fails, for once. He distracts himself by sitting down. 

“I just . . .” Bucky wets his lips again, unsure of what to say. 

Steve decides to put him out of his floundering misery, lifting one of his shaking hands to Bucky’s face. Bucky freezes, but Steve isn’t worried that he’ll pull away, or try and attack him, this time: he pushes past the residual pain in his left arm to stroke his hand through Bucky’s hair, feeling the new length. 

“Natasha did a good job on your hair,” Steve comments, a cheeky edge to his smile. Bucky smiles, too, though it’s watery.  
“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. Steve continues to stroke a hand through his hair, and he leans into the touch, for a few minutes.  
“. . . Heard I gave you all a scare,” Steve says quietly. Bucky’s head tilts downwards solemnly, and he nods once. 

Steve remembers being ill, when he was younger: Bucky didn’t care about the chance that he would become ill, too, if he stayed with Steve when he was sick. He used to laugh, and joke, at his bedside; sometimes he’d climb onto the bed, and keep Steve warm. He was always so upbeat, with a joke to crack and a story to tell – nothing like he is, right now. 

Steve doesn’t begrudge him that, though: things have changed. They’ll never be quite the same – but particularly this time around, Steve knows Bucky was really badly affected by being forced to go back to the place where he experienced all those awful things. Steve doesn’t remember much, but he knows that whatever happened to Bucky, back there, will probably haunt him forever. 

“I wouldn’t even be here at all if it wasn’t for you, though,” Steve points out. “I heard you got me out,”  
“You don’t remember?” Bucky asks, his head tilting upwards, a look of concern in his eyes.  
“Not really – just little bits, and pieces,” Steve admits.  
“They gave you something,” Bucky tells him, his voice wavering slightly. “They dosed you, and they were – they were gonna, they said – they said they’d-” He stutters, so completely unlike his old self but not caring in the slightest – and neither does Steve. He can see that Bucky’s distressed, and his breath is coming short, and his eyes are flitting about nervously, as he tries to tell Steve what happened. 

“Hey – hey, Bucky-” Steve says, bringing his hand to Bucky’s face, and cupping his cheek. His eyes snap to Steve’s, wide and wild with his hideous remembrance; they eat Steve up, just really glad he’s back. “We’re safe, now,” Steve reminds him. Bucky’s like a tightly-coiled spring, again; tension is evident in every line of his body, the result of his memories. He’s hunched and uncomfortable, all wound-up from what he just went through – and what he put Steve through, as he sees it. 

But then something snaps, and Bucky lunges forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Steve, and burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. It’s clearly what he wanted to do all along, but he was too nervous, and confused, and tentative to try. 

Steve’s slightly surprised, and he has to gently remind Bucky not to squeeze so tightly, as he wraps his arms around his friend.  
“Thought you were gonna – they said, it was close – dammit, Steve, I don’t want you to leave me,” Bucky tells him, though his words are slightly muffled against the skin of Steve’s neck.  
“I won’t . . . Not again,” Steve replies softly.  
“. . . You don’t hate me?” Bucky asks, pulling away slightly. He looks nervous – Steve can’t imagine why.  
“Why would I hate you?” He asks.  
“I got you captured,” He says. “They would have . . . They hurt you, and they would have hurt you more, and worse – it’s my fault,” Bucky says, looking down again, and not at Steve.  
“It was the Russians, Buck,” Steve reminds him. “Just the Russians. It wasn’t your fault . . . None of this is on you, okay?” 

Bucky bites his lip. Steve frowns slightly for a second, casting his gaze around. 

“Listen . . . Do you think anyone will mind if you . . .?” Steve asks, gesturing to the side of the bed. Bucky looks confused for a moment, but quickly realises what Steve means. He climbs onto the bed beside Steve – on his right, to avoid even brushing the stitches – Steve reprimands him,  
“Don’t forget to take your shoes off,”  
“Yes, _Mom_ ,” Bucky says sarcastically, though it comes out a little quieter than he’d like. He’s not quite ready to joke like he used to, just yet. 

He slips his boots off, and slides in beside Steve; he ensures Steve has a bunch of pillows to position himself comfortably on the other side of the bed, without aggravating his injury. 

Bucky’s metal arm is closest to Steve, but Steve doesn’t mind – the cool metal of Bucky’s hand in his hand feels normal, by now. He knows when to hold it; how tightly, to elicit a reflexive grip back – not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to feel right – to feel like home. 

“What happened to you, Bucky?” Steve asks softly. He can feel every breath Bucky takes across the bed, in the pull of the sheets and the minute heaves of the mattress beneath them. His breath quickens, at the question – Steve grips his hand a little tighter.  
“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells Bucky, afraid he’s overstepped the mark. Bucky shakes his head, looking down at their intertwined hands like they’re fascinating. 

They _are_ fascinating, to him: Steve can’t possibly know how many times he’s looked down at his metal limb, and wondered if it’s capable of anything but damage, and combat, and violence; wondered if it can show love, and be loved. He’s wondered the same thing about himself as many times. 

So to see Steve’s fingers brush against it, gripping it, tracing patterns against the warming alloy . . . It feels amazing. It feels like acceptance – love, even. 

He focusses on that feeling, as he talks, with barely any inflection at all:  
“Karpov was there. He wanted to wipe me again – if I didn’t cooperate, he was going to send me to a gulag – a prison camp, in Siberia,” Steve frowns, his face twisted with shock and indignation. “But he’d rather I helped them. And . . . He wanted you, too. Wanted to do the same thing he’d done to me, to you. He said he’d hurt you if I didn’t cooperate,” Bucky takes a deep breath, still looking down at their hands, as he confesses: “I killed him. And I killed the pilot that fired on us. And a scientist, and at least ten agents, on my way to get you – I picked you up, they’d . . . They’d given you something, it made you uncoordinated, and you were concussed anyway. We fought our way out . . . I told you to leave me behind if I didn’t make it,” Bucky recounts. “But you wouldn’t listen,” He adds fondly, a slight smile pulling at one side of his lips.  
“Of course I didn’t,” Steve tells him, like it’s completely obvious. And to him, it is. 

Bucky looks up from their hands, his mouth hanging open slightly; he smiles, unable to hide his love of hearing that from Steve. It reminds him that they find their way back to each other, no matter what, eventually. 

Steve just looks . . . He looks like sunshine, and fireworks, and a goddamn wonder of the world. He’s bruised, and his head is bandaged up, but he always looks so perfect, to Bucky – even when he didn’t remember Steve, seeing him always gave him a funny feeling that he’d hated back then, and loves now. It’s a fluttering, blossoming feeling, right down in his gut: it’s a strange feeling, and it can be unpleasant sometimes, but he wouldn’t give it up for anything. He couldn’t ever shake it even if he wanted to, apparently. 

Steve’s the goddamn light of his life. To put a smile back on his face is everything Bucky’s wanted, since he broke free of the conditioning, and realised what he’d become. A smile from Steve makes him feel like everything’s going to be okay, one day. A kiss from him makes him know it’ll be okay. 

He doesn’t care that Steve’s been out of it for thirty-six hours, or that someone could walk in. He looks down at Steve’s lips, and Steve smiles; he knows what Bucky wants, and he leans forward ever so slightly. 

Bucky kisses him, initiating the embrace: it’s not like those panicked, rushed kisses he gave Steve before. It’s more like the kiss before they last piloted their jaeger: there’s a desperate quality, in there, somehow – Bucky wants to make everything alright, he needs to feel accepted – but it slows up as time goes on, Steve slowing the pace slightly to make it more relaxed. 

“No need to rush,” Steve breathes, “I’m not going anywhere,”  
“Promise?” Bucky asks, with a smile.  
“Promise,” He agrees. 

They kiss for a little while longer, before Bucky breaks it off:  
“I should go – you need to sleep,” He tells Steve, though he doesn’t really want to move.  
“I can sleep like this,” Steve assures him, “You need rest for your arm, too,” He adds, eyeing the bandage. Bucky waves the notion away.  
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse,”  
“Hey, I’m offering you the chance to stay in bed here – thought you loved to sleep in?” Steve teases.  
“You always wake me up,” Bucky tells him.  
“I swear I won’t this time,” 

Bucky sighs, but finally settles in, pushing a pillow up against his metal arm, so Steve can lean on it without getting hurt in any way. Steve’s out like a light, within seconds – he just misses Natasha, who’s come with snacks for him; she pauses in the doorway, smirking when she sees Steve propped up and asleep against Bucky. 

She laughs a little at Bucky, who scowls at her; she drops off the snacks, and he nods his thanks, despite his annoyance. Steve shifts, slightly, distracting Bucky for a second – while he’s not paying attention, Natasha snaps a picture of them curled up together, for future humiliation purposes, before taking her leave. 

Eventually, Bucky falls asleep, too. They don’t wake up til the following morning. 

-

Fury requests Steve and Bucky’s presence in his office, as soon as Steve is able to get up and walk around, again. That ends up taking a week: Steve insists he’s fine, a few days in, but Bucky sees the way he flinches when he has to get up and go to the bathroom; the way he grimaces, when the stitches in his back pull. He talks Steve around, and glares at the doctors who come in to visit him, almost militant in his insistence that Steve receives the best possible treatment. 

Of course, when it comes to his arm, he waves away the suggestion of pain meds, insisting on starting his physical therapy as soon as possible, rather than resting it up. Steve tells him off, for that. _Always such a mother hen._

But he insists Steve stays in bed, anyway. 

“Bucky, you’re the one who likes to sleep in, not me,” Steve complains.  
“Nah – you know you’d sleep in too, if you didn’t get woken up by the slightest damn thing,” Bucky points out. Steve sighs, but doesn’t contradict him: a light breeze is usually enough to wake him; just as well one of them would wake up for the jaeger alarm, back in the old days. 

Now, Steve knows Bucky wakes up at the slightest thing, too: he can get to sleep easy enough, but it’s hard for him to stay that way. Most nights, Bucky has night terrors – terrifying visions that grip him, make him shake in his sleep, and grind his teeth, and make the most terrifying expression of agony that Steve’s ever seen. They scare Steve half to death, too. 

The noise of Bucky’s harsh breathing, and whining, and moaning are more than enough to rouse him, the light sleeper that he is – sometimes they subside, and Bucky relaxes slightly. Other times, Steve has to wake him up, and remind him he’s safe. It’s no mean feat, when Bucky’s sleeping on the threadbare, over-small couch across the room: he told Steve it would be unfair to share his tiny hospital bed, and he wouldn’t recover as well with a big crying baby sleeping next to him. 

Bucky criticises himself a lot, these days – both for what he became under the Russians’ guidance, and how he’s recovering from it. Steve refuses to back down in his insistence each time, though, that he’s not weak, or pathetic: it’s completely normal for him to have nightmares, and feel bad. 

“We fight giant monsters in a giant robot,” Bucky points out sarcastically, in response to that, leaning back in the hospital chair beside Steve’s bed with a dark smile, and asking him, “What part of our lives is _normal_?”  
“Still,” Steve had pointed out. “They offer post-traumatic counselling services, here . . . I had one or two sessions after you-” He bows his head slightly, unsure of how to phrase what happened, after the fact; he decides not to even try, in the end. “I should have had more, though. Pretty stupid of me,” Steve admits, picking at a thread on the blanket over his legs.  
“Good thing I left all my stupid with you,” Bucky says sardonically. Steve gives him a withering look, though there’s an undertone of humour to it – he remembers Bucky going overseas without him, once, and telling him not to do anything stupid til he got back. 

_How can I?_ Steve had said. _You’re taking all the stupid with you._

But Bucky goes to the sessions, after Steve argues him around a little more. One to one, group counselling – hell, Sam even told him there was art therapy available, if he wanted to get back into his sketching. 

Bucky finishes his sketchbook: it’s a mixture of styles, now, with his own and Steve’s sketches mashed together, pre- and post-fall. His drawing is more mechanical, now: there’s less of a flow to it, and less colour. He prefers to work in black and white of late, he finds: though he does add the occasional splash of red. 

And blue. For Steve’s eyes. 

He actually prefers Steve’s drawing style, now: the sketches of them together, and the doodles of stars and stripes. The ones of Bucky are the most detailed: he clearly put a lot of time, and effort, into them – he didn’t really want Bucky to see them before, through embarrassment, he knows. But now . . . Now, they can share anything. And they do. 

It’s a warm April day, when Fury summons them for their eventual debrief: he didn’t want to do it at Steve’s bedside; he wanted to wait, too, for the finer details of the diplomatic agreements he’s made to be finalised, before telling his pilots anything. He won’t tell them everything, of course: they’re blunt instruments, when it comes down to it – and they know it. They don’t appreciate international relations, but they want to know that what happened to them wasn’t for nothing. And it wasn’t. 

“You know, you should really be in a wheelchair, old man,” Bucky teases Steve, as he pulls on a fresh white shirt. He’s wearing his combat trousers, and Bucky helped him lace his boots, kneeling in front of him and winking suggestively at him before tying them in double bows. Steve blushed, of course. 

He likes getting back to some form of normality: he hopes he gets to see his friends and colleagues, as soon as possible. Dr. Simmons insisted that he come back to the hospital wing, after the debriefing – even after Bucky tried to talk her round, and convince her that he’d take real good care of Steve, in what’s now their dorm room. She got the message, both about Steve’s care, and about their relationship. But she still wanted Steve to come back after the debrief. 

Originally, Bucky had been a little wary of her (and all medical staff); but he’s warmed to her, now he knows she means him (and more importantly, Steve) no harm. With not much to do but watch Steve sleep, for a few days, he got talking to her a few times. He even spoke to her about his arm – she plucked up the courage to ask about the mechanics of it, and its effect on his body, after a while. Though she seemed a little tense and nervous to ask, and spoke way too fast, Bucky decided to humour her. He found her to be a pretty smart dame, truth be told; a good person, too. Rationally, he’d call her an ally, now. Hesitantly, he’d call her a friend, too. 

Steve had a bunch of visitors, during his week of recovery: when he wasn’t sleeping (an activity that annoyed him, because he felt lazy and like he needed to be helping out, and doing something), Sam visited, as did Natasha. The two of them visited once a day; Natasha brought Clint with her, too. She explained that she was moving out of her and Steve’s dorm, to give him and Bucky room, and into Clint’s dorm – she said they were looking into being co-pilots, as long as they can get a jaeger. 

Steve smiled, at that: the two of them are clearly good friends, and bicker like children when they’re together – they could make one firecracker of a pairing, in the drift. He asked, gingerly, if there was more to their relationship than just being friends: he received a nervous laugh from Clint, and a stern glare from Natasha, in return. _That’ll be a no, then._

Apparently, Sam’s in the market for a new co-pilot, too: Falcon Strike is now a man short, but there’s a bunch of SHIELD agents that want the chance to pilot with Sam, who’s a bit of a legend in his own right, now, after taking down the strong Red Guardian. Steve asked him to keep him updated on the progress of his hunt for a new co-pilot, a few days ago, and he said he would. 

Steve stands slowly, planting his feet and making a special effort to appear strong and steady for Bucky’s benefit. His friend sees straight through it: he comes up beside Steve, and positions Steve’s left arm around his neck. 

Steve scoffs slightly, but doesn’t pull away; he even leans in, slightly, to the curve of Bucky’s body beside his, warm and inviting, as he has been throughout Steve’s recovery. He’s standing on Steve’s left, just like when they pilot their jaeger, with Bucky’s metal hand gently taking the hand Steve’s got slung around his neck. 

“Thank you, Buck,” Steve says quietly, “But I can get by on my own,” 

Bucky looks him up and down doubtfully: Steve’s half-smiling, so Bucky knows he means it when he says that, but doesn’t mean any offense. Bucky sighs. 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky tells him. He adds, reminding Steve that he’s back for good, this time, “. . . Not anymore,” 

Bucky helps Steve out of the hospital wing, and into the familiar corridors of the Shatterdome: it feels good to stretch his legs properly, in contrast to the short periods of standing he’s taken to over the last few days (out of sight of Dr. Simmons). There are many people around: Steve can’t remember hearing the kaiju alarm go off for days (that only makes 2 attacks in the whole time he’s been convalescing – hardly anything, really). 

Every other person who passes smiles at Steve, or says something like, _good to see you back, Cap_ , or _lookin’ good, Cap!_

Steve smiles back genuinely: not least because, amongst their gratitude for Steve being back, there’s a smattering of smiles, and nods, and thankful greetings for Bucky, too. They all know that, without him, Steve wouldn’t be back; their jaeger would be in the hands of the Russians, and they’d be fighting against them, soon enough. 

When they reach Fury’s office, Natasha’s waiting beside the door: she’s leaning against a wall, looking at her watch. She looks up, as they approach, and gives them both the warmest smile Steve thinks he’s ever seen on her face. It’s edged with amusement, and slightly calculated, as she gets a measure of Steve’s injuries and the state of Bucky, but it’s completely genuine. 

“Captain. Sergeant. You’re a little late,”  
“The old man’s a little bit of a slow walker,” Bucky tells her. He receives a light elbow to the ribs, for his trouble. 

“Natasha,” Steve says, beaming at her. Bucky gives him his arm back, allowing him to lean down slightly to give her a hug. He knows she’s not really a big hugger, but after being such a good ally – and all the ways she’s helped with Bucky, from those hair ties she gave him months ago, to her support of him throughout Steve’s rehabilitation – he feels the need to show a whole lot of gratitude. 

She hugs back, tentatively at first, before relaxing slightly. She smiles at Bucky, over Steve’s shoulder, and he smiles back, running a hand through his hair, as he remembers her cutting it. The thought of the Black Widow so close to his neck, holding sharp scissors . . . It still sets his teeth on edge, but he’s learning to accept that not every mundane activity will end in betrayal, or pain – not everything is a training exercise, and not everything is a test, or a trick. 

Good things can still happen. And they can still happen to him, thanks to Natasha, and Sam . . . And Steve, of course. He wouldn’t even be here without him. 

“How you feeling?” She asks Steve.  
“Can’t complain,” He says with a smile, before looking back at Bucky with a grateful expression on his face. Bucky does _not_ blush – but he comes pretty damn close.  
“And you?” Natasha asks Bucky. He shrugs.  
“I’m lucky,” He says. She smirks.  
“Yeah. You are,” She agrees, looking between him, and Steve. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say the look she’s giving Bucky now is pretty damn close to _hurt him and I’ll break your legs_. 

She walks away from them, clapping Bucky on his left shoulder as she walks past. Steve turns to watch her go – Bucky realises he’s silently asking for support, when he smiles sheepishly at him. He steps up, and loops Steve’s arm around his neck, again. He helps him into Fury’s office. 

The man himself is sitting at his desk: _honest-to-God sitting down_. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Nick Fury sit in that expensive-looking seat in his life: or, if he has, it was a long, long time ago. Possibly around the time of the accident. 

Things are serious, when he’s having to sit down and deal with paperwork. 

He doesn’t stand, but looks up, acknowledging their presence with a nod, and saying:  
“Captain Rogers,” He smirks slightly as he says it, leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers together, looking _satisfied_ , if not happy. Steve’s never really seen him happy: he’s always having to worry about the bigger picture, after all. Steve doesn’t envy that – nor does he envy the big decisions, or the tough calls Fury’s always having to make. But he won’t stop giving him a hard time for them, if he disagrees. 

“Have a seat, Rangers,” Fury says, nodding to the two seats in front of him. Bucky helps him down into one of the seats, his metal hand lingers on Steve’s arm, sliding down the skin as he takes his place in the other chair. He sits upright, his full attention on Fury. Steve watches him with interest, and mild concern. But this isn’t the Winter Soldier he’s looking at – it’s just Bucky Barnes, giving his full attention to the mission. There’s nothing wrong with that. 

“Ranger Barnes is probably already aware of this – but you two have caused quite the international diplomatic situation with your _daring_ escape from the Russian facility,” Fury tells them. Bucky nods; Steve frowns, not liking the sound of that.  
“Situation?” He asks.  
“Don’t look so worried, Rogers. You’ve actually been a great help. You two . . . The international community owes you a debt – even more so than usual,” He tells them, referring to their many victories over kaiju over the years.  
“What do you mean?” Steve asks. 

Fury looks at Bucky, fixing him with a thoughtful gaze, and making a gesture that tells Bucky to explain.  
“. . . Turns out the Russian government didn’t even know all of the shit the Russian facility was doing – not the engineering of kaiju, or . . . Or the Winter Soldier,” He says, his voice becoming softer towards the end. Steve reaches out and grips Bucky’s arm, stroking it gently with his thumb. Bucky looks down at his hand, and licks his lips, before continuing.  
“They didn’t know about me – they didn’t give the facility permission to keep me, or to . . . Do any of that other stuff, to me. And when they went to repair the damage to the facility, and reviewed the security footage – they found out what Karpov was doing, and they put a stop to it,”  
“That’s right. They scrapped all his little projects – the number of kaiju incidents has fallen by sixty percent over the last week. There haven’t been any attacks around here in a long time,” Fury says. “The only attacks have been around the breach – we’re considering decommissioning this facility, and moving to the facility in Hong Kong. They could use our help over there – there’s a lot of kaiju attacks to stop, and a hell of a lot of coastal wall construction sites to defend,” He explains. 

“. . . So Russia hasn’t got a jaeger programme anymore?” Steve asks, processing the information he’s being told as quickly as he can.  
“I didn’t say that,” Fury says, and smirks again. “No, the reds have a programme – but someone with their head on straight is in charge of it now. Someone who wants to work with us,”  
“It could be a trick, again,” Bucky points out, slightly apprehensive.  
“It’s not, Ranger. They’re offering full transparency – they want their jaegers moved down to the Shatterdome in Hong Kong, too. They’re offering their best tech and pilots . . . The UN is calling it _world peace_ , if you can believe it,” He adds cynically. 

Steve blinks, and shifts slightly in his chair. He ignores the twinging of his stitches.  
“. . . What about everyone who worked on the Winter Soldier? – Do they still get diplomatic immunity?” He asks. Bucky stares at him for a second; he gulps, but looks to Fury for an answer, too. 

Fury sighs, a more serious and bitter look on his face, now.  
“All the ones that haven’t already been _dealt with_ ,” He says, looking pointedly at Bucky, who shows no sign of regret, “Will answer for what they did. Their diplomatic immunity was revoked, when they decided to spy on us, and kidnap and torture two of our pilots,” He tells them. “Don’t worry, Rangers – you’ll get your justice,” 

Steve nods; he takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, as he feels a sense of relief wash over him. He looks over at Bucky, and sees him sit back slightly, relaxing a little. His face isn’t quite blank: there’s a lot of emotion in his eyes that Steve can’t place. It’s not sadness – but it’s not joy, either. Steve thinks he’s just glad it’s over: that sense of relief can really take its toll, he knows. He feels a little of what Bucky’s feeling, right now, and it’s heavy in his chest. He can’t imagine how it feels for his co-pilot. 

He supposes he’ll find out, someday soon, in the drift. 

“You better brush up on your Chinese, gentlemen,” Fury says, a smile playing at his lips for a second, “You’re going to Hong Kong,”  
“Thank you, sir,” Steve says, standing, and giving Fury a salute. Bucky mimics the action, though he doesn’t say anything.  
“You better get to training – both of you. I need you fighting fit in a week, understand?”  
“I think you’ll have to fight Dr. Simmons on that one, sir,” Steve says, smirking. Fury nods, conceding the point.  
“Now go. You two caused an international incident, and those involve a _lot_ of paperwork,” Fury tells them wistfully, pulling a wad of papers towards himself, and eyeing them over it reproachfully. Steve nods, smiling to himself; Bucky steps up, and helps him walk again, this time out of the office. 

As they walk, Steve notices that Bucky’s face is grim: he wasn’t smiling, back there. His eyes are clouded over; he’s lost in thought and emotional. The lines of his face are troubled, and he bites his lip. 

“Hey,” Steve says, stopping and pulling him to one side as best he can. Bucky looks up at him, shaking himself and paying attention to his surroundings again, as they stop in an alcove on their way back to the hospital wing. “What’s up with you?”  
“. . . Nothing, Steve,” He says, smiling tightly. Steve doesn’t like that expression: it reminds him too much of when Bucky first realised what he’d become, and became self-aware once more; when he considered himself a monster, much more so than he does now.  
“It’s not nothing. You’re white as a sheet, Buck,” He tells him. 

Bucky sighs, rubbing his eyes with his flesh hand. 

“I . . . Just-” He gulps, floundering for words. “I can’t believe it’s . . . _Over_ ,” He tells Steve, finally looking up and meeting his gaze. Steve pretends not to notice that, when he rubs his eyes for a second time, it’s to wipe away a tear. It’s not that he’s sad, or upset – it’s just a release of pent-up tension, and an expression of all the relief he’s feeling.  
“Well it is,” Steve says, bringing up a hand to tuck an errant lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. Despite the haircut, Bucky’s hair is longer than he used to wear it, with the front of it occasionally hanging in his eyes. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut: he always did like it when Steve stroked his hair. It calms him down significantly. 

Steve continues to do so for a minute or so more, paying no attention to their surroundings; he cups Bucky’s cheek, and steps a little closer, before whispering to him:  
“It’s over. You’re free, now,”  
“Thank you, Steve,” Bucky tells him, ducking his head slightly, without opening his eyes. “Thank you,”  
“Hey,” Steve says, tilting Bucky’s head up; Bucky’s red-rimmed eyes open, and he looks up at Steve; he looks so small and vulnerable to Steve, at that moment, that he almost forgets the soldier who beat him up in the training room; the Ranger who shows him memories of violence and agony, in the drift, to fuel their attacks. 

At that moment, he’s just Bucky. He’s just a kid, who protected Steve his whole life. 

“I didn’t save you, Buck. You did,” Steve tells him. “I helped, sure – but you got us out of that place,” He reminds his friend. Bucky gulps, and takes Steve’s hand in his own. He grasps it for a moment, feeling that it’s there, before bringing it to his lips to kiss Steve’s knuckles. Steve’s seen him do that with dames, before: seen him treat them tenderly, and with the utmost care, sometimes to mask how nervous or uncomfortable he is. 

This is it. Not the old Bucky, but something like him: changed by experience, but for the better. _Strengthened._

“Guess we’re even, then,” Bucky murmurs. Steve smiles at that, leaning forwards slightly.  
“Yeah. Guess we are,” He confirms gently. 

He kisses Bucky, leaning on him heavily for support; he loops his hands around Bucky’s neck, leaning down on his shoulders. Bucky’s hands slide down his waist, to his hips, his eyes shut to savour the moment. It’s soft, and sweet; it’s not desperate; it’s not just to remind himself that Steve is still there, and still alive, for once . . . No, this time, it’s a celebration. 

_We made it. We’re back together. We’re free_. 

Steve breaks away from the kiss first, leaning his forehead against Bucky’s for a second.  
“People are gonna talk, now, you know,” Bucky tells him, a hint of mischief in his voice. _That’s just like Bucky_ , Steve thinks. _Hiding his feelings with humour and glib comments._  
“And they didn’t before?” Steve asks, with a grin.  
“True,” Bucky acknowledges, giving Steve another peck on the cheek, before leaning back, and positioning himself to support Steve again. But before they start walking, he pauses for a second, looking confused.  
“What is it?” Steve asks, frowning slightly.  
“. . . I think . . . Steve, do I have a locker?” Bucky asks. 

That catches Steve off-guard; he raises his eyebrows, taken aback for a second. But his expression soon becomes happy, and warm.  
“Yeah, you do,” He confirms happily, feeling strangely proud of his friend in that moment. “Didn’t think you’d remember,”  
“We’d better clear it out before we leave for Hong Kong,” Bucky reasons. Steve nods.  
“Yeah – I could do with a walk out – there’s only so much lying around I can take,”  
“You got _stabbed_ , Steve. And drugged,” Bucky reminds him sardonically.  
“I feel much better now,” Steve tries to persuade him. Bucky sighs: he could never refuse Steve anything much.  
“C’mon, then. But if you pass out or start bleeding everywhere, I'm not carrying you back to Dr. Simmons,” Bucky warns jokingly. 

They both know he would, though. He’d carry him wherever he wanted, and he’d follow him anywhere, because he feels like he owes Steve everything - and he loves him. 

He’s with Steve til the end of the line.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! I'll save notes until the end. 
> 
> It takes place three months after the events of the last chapter.

The sirens in the middle of the night wake them both up, now. 

Today, though, they’re woken up by their usual everyday alarm: Steve still stirs first, like he used to. He squirms slightly, registering Bucky’s arms around him; Bucky’s body at his back, face in the crook of his neck. He’s already kissing the warm skin there, feeling Steve’s quickening pulse, as the alarm brings him to awareness. 

They decided to drag their mattresses onto the floor of their dorm a while back, making a large enough bed for them to both sleep on: the dorms in the Hong Kong Shatterdome are bigger, and can accommodate the makeshift double bed. No one commented on it, or told them to stop – and they haven’t looked back, since. 

“Happy birthday, Cap,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s ear, before kissing the soft skin just behind it; he rubs Steve’s stomach with his right hand; his left is trapped between them, warm from being in contact with Steve’s body. He brings it up to sit up and lean on it, as he forces himself to wake up. 

Steve rolls from his side onto his back, and smiles blearily up at Bucky. 

“Thank you, Buck,” He says, tucking a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. He lets his arm drop down, brushing along Bucky’s metal arm as he does so. But he feels something strange: he frowns, slightly, trying to discern what’s different about the arm in the low light. Bucky smirks, and reaches for the desk lamp, turning it on. Steve waits a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light, before looking in awe at Bucky’s arm. 

He’s been hiding it, for the past few days: Steve’s noticed how he’s been wearing long-sleeved shirts and jackets, rather than his usual vests and t-shirts. He doesn’t usually have a problem showing the hardware off, but Steve had been worried that he’d been starting to despise it; starting to feel self-conscious, around the other pilots they’ve met here in Hong Kong. 

But it becomes abundantly clear that he’s just been hiding it so that the modifications he’s made to it would be a surprise.  
“I know you said you didn’t want anything,” Bucky tells him, “But I thought I’d bend the rules. See, it isn’t a _present_ , it’s a . . . _Personal_ thing,” He says, though Steve’s only half listening. He’s mainly gawping at the prosthesis. 

It’s still shining silver. The thing that stands out most, now, though, is the upper arm: rather than the red star of old, there’s a couple of concentric circles – blue, surrounded by red – with a white star in the middle. _Just like the patterns I drew in the sketchbook_ , Steve thinks to himself. He reaches out to touch the pattern, his fingers feeling the embossing, as Bucky watches over him with a contented smile on his face. 

While that’s the most obvious change, there are others: there are engravings all over the arm, meticulously carved into it with a needle-fine point, creating patterns and pictures. They’re like tattoos, only impressed into the alloy. They’re permanent, for sure. 

Steve recognises the flames, from the outside of Justice Inferno, on the limb. He runs his fingers over the stars and stripes of the American flag; shooting stars, practically identical to those he drew in the sketchbook. 

The part that makes his mouth go dry, and makes him bite his lip, is the ornate cursive lettering engraved in an arch over the circular pattern on the upper arm: _til the end of the line_. 

“. . . You like it?” Bucky asks, studying Steve’s face carefully; his expression is cocky, though. He knows Steve will like it.  
“Bucky, it’s-” He swallows, looking up into Bucky’s eyes. “. . . It’s amazing. I love it,” 

He pulls Bucky down for a kiss: it’s a thank you, sure, but it’s somehow deeper than that. To mark himself so permanently, in a way so intimately related to Steve . . . He may as well have written _property of Steve Rogers_ on the prosthesis. 

And that makes Steve feel all hot under the collar. 

Bucky’s on top of him in a few seconds, looming over him; he never breaks from the kiss, as he manoeuvers himself on top of Steve. Steve’s hands are in his hair, pulling him close, and scratching his scalp gently, in a way that he knows Bucky loves. Bucky’s forearms are planted on either side of his head, and he’s moving gently in time with Steve’s hands in his hair, pushing into the touch, wanting more of it. 

Steve smiles into their kiss, and Bucky breaks away:  
“What’s funny, Rogers?” He asks.  
“. . . Nothing, Buck,” Steve says, smiling up at him with hooded eyelids. “I’m just happy,”  
“You’re just _soft_ ,” Bucky teases him.  
“True,” Steve admits, and bites his lip, looking down Bucky’s body. He’s only wearing his boxers. “. . . It’s my birthday, you know,” He points out coyly.  
“Yeah, I’m aware,” Bucky says, deliberately dancing around what he knows Steve means. 

He watches Steve blush and squirm for a moment, unsure of what to say next – he was never very good at dirty talk, but Bucky doesn’t mind, thankfully – before he gives Steve a sultry look.  
“Oh, Captain Rogers,” He says huskily, mocking Steve. “Who knew you were such a pervert,”  
“I’m not!” Steve denies hotly. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, and he sighs. “It’s just . . . You. You’re beautiful,” He tells Bucky. 

Bucky leans down to kiss him again, the noise of it filling the room again for a few seconds, before Bucky breaks away and whispers,  
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” He goes to kiss Steve again, but Steve brings one of his hands down to Bucky’s metal shoulder, stopping him in his progress.  
“I mean it, Buck,” He says, an earnest expression suddenly on his face. “You’re . . . I’ve never felt like this about anyone, except you. You’re just . . .” 

_You’re just Bucky_ , is what Steve wants to say. In his mind, _Bucky_ is synonymous with so many positive things; so many incredible feats of strength, and protection, and recovery, each of which amazes him more than the last. But he can’t very well say that without ruining the mood. 

“Sexy?” Bucky asks, raising one eyebrow. Steve hits him playfully.  
“I’m trying to say something deep here, jerk,” He complains.  
“Deep, huh?” Bucky quips.  
“Bucky!” Steve reprimands. 

Bucky sighs, leaning down to kiss Steve’s pulse point gently. He whispers, “Yeah. You’re not too bad, yourself,” To his co-pilot, who smiles, mentally shaking his head. He doesn’t actually shake it, though – he’s too busy letting his eyes slide shut, and getting lost in the sensation of Bucky sucking a pretty impressive hickey onto the side of his neck, where he knows Steve’s leather jacket won’t cover it. 

“I’m so glad I have you back,” Steve whispers, surprising even himself with the sudden stark honesty of the statement. Bucky pauses, frozen for a few seconds. In that period of silence, Steve adds, “. . . God, I missed you so much. I don’t want another birthday without you,”  
“Careful, Rogers,” Bucky says, a hint of amusement in his whispered words, “That sure is close to a proposal,”  
“Well . . .”  
“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Bucky says, slipping down to kiss Steve’s chest. He kisses all the way down to Steve’s navel, before resting his chin there, and looking up at Steve’s face with dark-clouded eyes. That expression is a different kind of dark to when he was trapped in the machine the Russians called _Winter Soldier_ – not the jaeger, but the man.

Steve strokes the embossing on Bucky’s left arm, before taking the metal hand in his hand. Bucky’s other hand plays lightly across the left side of his ribcage, fingers brushing over the scar on Steve’s back momentarily, and making him shiver. Bucky gets that sensation, having felt Steve’s fingers ghost over his scars, himself. It’s . . . _Intimate_ , is probably the best way to describe it. 

“I said no presents,” Steve says, a smile tugging at his lips. Bucky gazes up at him, that cocky smirk on his face.  
“This one’s just for me, Rogers,” He says. 

They’re late to Steve’s birthday party, to say the least. 

-

“I feel like everyone here knows we just . . . You know,” Steve mutters to his co-pilot.  
“That I just blew you like a pro?” Bucky asks lewdly, whispering in Steve’s ear.  
“Bucky!” Steve says, blushing slightly.  
“Well, it is your birthday, Steve,” Bucky points out, as Steve surveys the crowd. “It’s kind of tradition,” 

Steve blushes a little harder. 

Natasha and Bucky organised a birthday party, for Steve, down in the hangar: it’s much larger than the old one, accommodating tens of jaegers rather than just three, with each jaeger having its own large portion of the hangar to itself. Justice Inferno is covered in confetti, as Natasha decided it should be; Thor’s rustled up a table for them, and Tony’s provided a buffet, and a cake: it’s an incredibly ostentatious cake, and covered in expensive-looking decorations, Steve notes – though he’s unsurprised. Upon Natasha’s insistence, a candle for every year of Steve’s life has been added to it, as well, covering quite a lot of it. 

“I hope there’s some cake under all those candles, Natalia,” Bucky had told her. She’d just laughed. 

Thor agreed to take the morning off from working on the four US jaegers, to attend the party. He’s got more of a workload, now, being responsible for four crafts, rather than three. 

Steve and Bucky are the primary US team, piloting Justice Inferno, as always; Fury’s still in charge of SHIELD, despite their move to Hong Kong, so he sends them out to all the largest kaiju attacks. Alpha Thunder is still piloted by Foster and Lewis. Currently, Foster is teasing Thor, wiping oil off the end of his nose and laughing at him. Lewis is at the buffet – which consists of so much food that the trestle table it’s on is practically groaning under the weight of it – snaffling as much bread as she can get her hands on, before Foster notices and tells her off. 

Falcon Strike is still one of the best jaegers in the business: Sam still pilots her, but now, with a new partner. Agent Thirteen – a former SHIELD operations agent – is a brilliant combatant, had the highest simulation score in the entire jaeger training programme, and is sensitive, kind and quick-witted enough to be drift compatible with Sam. 

Steve liked Sharon Carter from the moment he first saw her and Sam undergoing combat training: it was obvious to him that she was fierce, and strong; but when he got talking to her, during the process of helping Sam select his new co-pilot, he found her thoughtful and considerate, too – plus, she had a great sense of humour. That’s a winning combination, in his eyes: he recommended her wholeheartedly, and Sam trusts his judgement – especially when it comes to co-pilots. He hasn’t been wrong about one, so far. 

Falcon Strike is the quickest jaeger in the programme, and her pilots are almost as synchronised as Steve and Bucky are. They’re usually first choice, when a mission requires two jaegers. 

Sam and Sharon said they'd drop by, later. Fury's got them on some publicity assignment, at the moment, promoting the jaeger corps to highschoolers and trainee SHIELD agents alike. But Sam promised - so they'll be here soon, Steve knows. 

The fourth and newest jaeger isn’t really new, at all: it’s Black Widow, shared between Russia and the US, in recompense for all the horrible things that happened to the US’ pilots at the hands of Karpov, and the former Russian jaeger programme, as it was. They have a new jaeger programme, now, that works hand-in-hand with SHIELD: they share all new technology, and all the personnel they require. 

Black Widow is piloted by Natasha, and Clint: she’s certainly the more in the charge of the two, in Steve’s eyes. However, Clint’s pushing her to see if they can get the great black jaeger – embossed with the red, angular hourglass-like symbol present on its namesake spider – renamed Black Hawk. 

Steve doubts it will happen – but he won’t rule it out. Natasha’s strong, but she’s not a monster. Just a damn good co-pilot. 

Also in attendance are Tony and Bruce: the two of them stand off to one side, having a discussion about Stark’s repulsor beam technology, and whether he’d be willing to share it with Bruce and Thor, so it can be equipped as standard to all US jaegers. Stark’s not happy to part with technology as unique as his Iron Man weapons – but Bruce thinks he can talk him around, eventually, with a mix of logic and flattery. 

Iron Man isn’t officially a US jaeger. In fact, officially, SHIELD doesn’t know about Iron Man – at least, not on the books. Off the books, Fury knows full well that the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist helps out his jaegers on their missions when he feels like getting out of bed, and/or being a productive member of society. He guesses it must be an ego-boost for Stark, and that he’s ultimately a force for good – so he turns a blind eye, and hopes Tony doesn’t fuck up. 

“Not interrupting anything am I?” The man himself asks, sidling up to Steve and Bucky, and taking a handful of dried blueberries from the buffet. _Who puts dried blueberries on a buffet?_ Steve thinks to himself, watching Stark offer some to Bruce, who follows him.  
“Stark,” Steve greets him with a polite smile. “Dr. Banner,” He greets Bruce, with a warmer smile. Bruce smiles back, looking from Steve’s face to Bucky’s arm, and looking a little proud of himself. 

“Happy birthday, Cap,” Bruce says.  
“Thank you,” Steve replies.  
“Did you like your present? – Your boyfriend was very insistent on the design,” Tony says, nodding to Bucky’s arm. Steve, Bruce and Tony all stare at the limb: Steve’s afraid, for a moment, that Bucky will feel self-conscious, and uncomfortable. 

However, he’s the complete opposite: far from being a shrinking violet, like he might have been several months ago, Bucky practically preens under the attention – he holds the limb up for the others to see, grinning at Steve, and raising an eyebrow at him. They don’t even register the word _boyfriend_ as a dig at them. 

“This was you?” Steve asks Tony curiously.  
“It was a group effort,” Bruce says, before Tony can say anything. “They used my lab, and my tools-”  
“I invented a programme that would engrave the design onto the arm. With lasers. In under an hour. With no damage to the internal mechanisms. But – sure. Group effort,” Tony says sarcastically. 

Bucky ignores him, and adds, “I scanned in some of the designs from the sketchbook. And, uh – I did the writing myself,” He says.  
“That’s incredible,” Steve says, honestly impressed. “Has Thor seen this?”  
“You kidding?” Bucky asks, a hint of laughter in his voice. “The guy watched the whole time. You know he loves this kinda thing. He asked if I’d paint anything extra on the Inferno,”  
“And did you?”  
“Maybe I will one day soon. The flames need touching up – could do with a few more stars and stripes, too,”  
“Yeah, cause that’s one thing it’s missing already,” Tony adds derisively. Bucky and Steve both glare at him.  
“. . . I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Tony says, “Got lots of stuff to do. Can’t waste all my time at parties like some people,” He turns away, calling back, “Have a great day, Cap. Save me and Pepper some cake. And enjoy the buffet,”  
“We will, thanks,” Steve calls to him. They’re by no means friends, but Steve respects him more, now, after he came to their aid when they needed help most, helping to take down the now decommissioned Red Guardian and protect Justice Inferno. For that, Steve will always be thankful – even if Tony’s an ass in everyday life. 

“I should probably make sure he doesn’t touch anything in the lab without supervision,” Bruce sighs, watching Tony walk away, and looking extremely put-upon. Steve nods, smiling slightly at the idea of Bruce running around after Tony, trying to prevent him from breaking any of the new tech Bruce has salvaged from the Russians, and trying not to get angry. Steve doesn’t know how he does it.  
“Why don’t you just lock the door? Get a key-code, or something?” Steve asks. 

Bruce looks at him doubtfully. “You think Stark couldn’t hack that in five seconds?”  
“. . . Good point,” Steve concedes, feeling a little foolish. Bucky chuckles, laughing at him slightly, and earning himself an elbow to the ribs. 

“Great to see you, Cap. Have a great birthday,” Bruce says, waving goodbye as he follows Stark, trying to look as dignified as possible while basically running after him, like he would an errant child. Steve shakes his head in amused incredulity, as he watches him go. 

“Let’s go and talk to Natalia – she’ll want to know how you like the party,” Bucky says, tugging on Steve’s hand, and trying not to crush it in his metal grip, as he does so. Steve doesn’t comment on his use of Natasha’s Russian alias. It’s just one of those things Bucky can’t seem to overwrite, in his memory. 

As they approach, Clint’s on the warpath about their jaeger name, again.  
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just – it doesn’t have very much of _me_ in it, does it?” He reasons.  
“Oh, no. God forbid I leave out a man – it’s not like they get representation everywhere else,” Natasha says sarcastically. Bucky sniggers to himself, as they arrive beside the two bickering co-pilots.  
“Cap,” Clint greets, “ _Please_ tell your old co-pilot that our jaeger should be called Black Hawk,”  
“I’m not getting involved,” Steve says breezily, amused at the conversation. Natasha isn’t to be trifled with, he knows.  
“Very diplomatic,” Natasha tells him, raising an eyebrow. “Happy birthday, by the way,” She adds, smiling at him, and looking pointedly at Clint.  
“Thanks. This is a great party,” Steve tells her, and she smiles brightly.  
“Yeah, happy birthday – we got you a sketchbook and some pencils and junk. They’re in our dorm. Natasha forgot to wrap them,” Clint tells him.  
“I didn’t! – It was _his_ job,” Natasha protests.  
“No, it was definitely yours,” Clint retorts, though his slight smile lets Steve know that he’s just winding her up, at this point. 

Steve and Bucky watch their back and forth for a minute, before Natasha sighs, and says:  
“Look, I’ll go get them. See you in a few minutes-” She walks past Steve, brushing against the side Bucky isn’t standing on, and stealthily whispering to him, “By the way, nice hickies,” 

Steve blushes, his hand flying to his neck, rubbing at the bruises there. Natasha winks at Bucky, before leaving to get Steve’s present. 

It’s then that the kaiju alarm goes off: Bucky tenses up, almost crushing Steve’s hand in his own, but catching himself just in time – Steve tenses up, too, but he soon grins at Bucky; he grins back. 

Fury wanted to move them off rotation, to give them a day off, today – but Steve had requested that they be on call on his birthday. Honestly, there’s no party, and no present, that can measure up to fighting a kaiju, in his opinion. It’s what he does best: fighting monsters, in a giant robot, with SHIELD backing him up, and Bucky on his left. 

Nothing can beat that. 

“We’d better get going – thanks for the party!” Steve calls to the remaining guests, as he follows Bucky to their nearby locker room, to get suited up as quickly as possible.  
“Captain!” Thor bellows, causing him to pause, and turn back. “You’re going to need this,” 

Thor pulls something out from beneath the buffet table: a gift, though it’s unwrapped. It’s a helmet: specifically, a new helmet, ready for Steve to wear while piloting.  
“I thought this would suit you much more than your previous helmet – Jane had some input in the design. We wished for it to be reminiscent of your birth date,” Thor explains, handing the helmet to Steve. He’s right: it’s covered in red, white and blue fireworks; vibrant and bright, like the 4th of July. It’s custom made just for him, clearly. 

“It’s not the same as Bucky’s helmet, obviously,” Jane says, as Steve examines the helmet. “But you’re different pilots. Everyone deserves their own design,”  
“Where’s my pretty new helmet?” Darcy calls, sidling up, still clutching a bread roll.  
“It’s not your birthday, Darcy,” Jane reminds her.  
“Oh yeah,” Darcy says, “I forgot, cause this buffet is basically a gift,” She reasons. Jane rolls her eyes. 

“Thanks so much. Seriously, this is . . .” Steve finds himself lost for words, as he looks down at the shining headgear. “Thank you,” He says earnestly, looking between Thor, Jane and Darcy. Thor grips Jane’s shoulder tightly, his arm around her shoulders. She leans her head into him, and smiles.  
“Go get ‘em,” Darcy tells Steve and Bucky, with a smile.  
“We will. Thanks,” Bucky says, pulling on Steve’s arm before he spends so much time thanking them that the kaiju dies of old age. 

-

Before they wire themselves in, they take a second to embrace: a tight hug, with armour flush against armour; Steve’s free hand in Bucky’s hair, while the other clings to his helmet. Bucky’s metal arm clings to his own star-spangled helmet, while his flesh arm tightens around Steve’s middle. 

They kiss, too: it’s quick, and chaste, but it means so much to them both. They never got a chance, before Bucky was taken away almost six years ago, to say how they felt. They’ve said it, now – they don’t need to say it, anymore. A kiss is enough to express the love between them; to ensure that, if they go down, they go down knowing that they are loved, and that nothing’s gone unsaid. 

They don’t wait for things to come out in the drift, anymore: they tell each other everything, having learnt their lesson about things left unsaid the hard way. They never tire of one another, strangely enough, despite having known each other since they were kids; despite the fact that they still talk into the early hours, sometimes, about . . . Well, _everything_. Bucky even opens up about his experiences with the Russians, occasionally: those experiences he’s previously only spoken about in counselling, he can now talk frankly about with Steve, to help him understand. 

It doesn’t scare Steve away, like he’d been afraid of, initially: it only brings them closer together. As pilots, and as what Steve would soppily call ‘a couple’. Bucky finds it silly to label that kind of thing, but he does concede that they’re closer than ever; more intimate. 

“Seems a shame to shake off all the confetti,” Steve says, beginning to wire himself into the jaeger control system. Bucky chuckles.  
“Natalia will get over it. You ready to kill a kaiju on your birthday?” Bucky asks, putting on his helmet, and wiring himself in. He slots his arm into the mechanism that allows him to control the left arm of the jaeger, and shifts slightly, making himself comfortable.  
“Born ready,” Steve jokes, putting his helmet on.  
“That’s lame, Cap,” Bucky tells him, though he smirks slightly. 

“Morning Rangers,” Maria Hill’s voice comes in over the coms, “And happy birthday, Rogers,”  
“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve says. Bucky smirks at his use of the formal title.  
“Ready to drift?” She asks.  
“We sure are,” Bucky says, flexing his left arm.  
“Stand by,” Maria says, and the coms go silent for a few moments. 

“What about you? You ready?” Steve asks Bucky, casting his gaze towards him.  
“Sure I am. I’m the best damn pilot in the business,” Bucky replies casually, though the statement is laced with humour “–and my co-pilot’s not too bad, either,” He teases.  
“I don’t know about that, Buck – remember when you couldn’t land a punch on that kaiju? . . . The class 3 one – what was it called . . . Faustus?” Steve jibes back. 

Bucky pauses, his eyes glazed over; his expression is thoughtful, and for a moment Steve thinks that maybe this is just one of those things that Bucky will never get back – something they stole from him, that he can never reclaim. 

But then a smile slowly spreads across Bucky’s face, and he nods, looking at Steve.  
“He was a fast one,” Bucky recalls.  
“He was. He almost threw us for a loop, til I came in and covered your ass,” Steve reminisces. Bucky scoffs, catching Steve’s eye, and winking at him in that quintessentially _Bucky_ way, with a sly smile and a daring expression.  
“Whatever, Cap,” He says, as the drift starts up, showing them sketchbooks and training rooms and bunk beds; jaegers and kaiju and painted helmets; left arms and haircuts and _til the end of the line_.  
“. . . I had him on the ropes,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks - let me say, for the last time, that you've all been incredibly supportive, and you've really spurred me on to write this. Sorry for any mistakes you've spotted along the way - I have no beta-reader or anything, and despite my best efforts (I re-read all the time to catch errors) I still manage to embarrass myself with crappy spelling, grammar etc. so thanks for being patient with me on that front. 
> 
> What started out as a 568 word drabble on tumblr is now the longest fanfic i've ever written (around 75k). You readers, and your enthusiasm, deserve a huge chunk of the credit for that. So, thanks for sticking with this, and thanks for reading!! I hope this fic lived up to your expectations. 
> 
> If you have any prompts for this pairing (especially AUs, they're my favourite thing, clearly), you can find me on tumblr (my url is comraderogers). 
> 
> Cheers :))


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